


All is fair in Love & War

by TariTheNurse



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alienation, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Asgard, Asgardian - Freeform, Captivity, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fluff, Illness, Jotun, Jotunheim, Lemons, Midgard, Murder, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Scheming, Self-Acceptance, Seperation, Smut, Soulmates, Starvation, The Nine Realms, Utgard, Vanaheim, Vanar, War, immortality vs mortality, vanir, wise parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-26 06:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: The kingdom of Midgard is suffering due to the war against the monstrous Loki's Jotunheim. Fighting as a soldier, you are part of the forces that seek to attack one of his outposts and thereby hopefully take back some of the lost lands, but things take an unexpected turn...





	1. I - To Victory

Moving through corridors lit by distant fires and explosions, it is still possible to see the grandeur of the historic place. A twinge of guilt lets itself known as you scout each ruined hall and broken room on your way further into the heart of the building, searching for stragglers that have escaped the real battle...searching for _him._ No one else has ventured this far. No one wants to. The main objective is not to kill the ruler of this forsaken land because it has not been clear if he will be there at all (no one knows his movements) but to disrupt his creations of horrors, free his slaves and raze the base until not even a single stone is left standing. But he _is_ here and has caused severe losses on your side. And now you are here, sneaking along the corridors, heart in your throat and cold sweat running down you spine.

Reaching a winding stair case, you pause to consider which way to go. Up or down? A faint, green light from above casts distorted shadows onto the stones. You only know of one source of such a glow: Loki’s magic. You force yourself into motion. Hurrying up the steps, equally afraid you will lose the trail or that he will hear you. _God of Malevolence and Mischief._ The trickster goes by many names, and perhaps “malevolence” is not one of the official ones, but it seems fitting after all you have seen, and it is unfathomable that so many follow him freely.

The spiral of stone spits you out in a room where a few items have escaped the claws of destruction. In fact, not only is each piece of furniture intact, it is also rather lavish. A heavy desk by the window, papers still lying peacefully by the inkwell and the furs on the chair invitingly soft. The nest-like puffs and armchairs by the still smoldering fireplace seem to invite you to sit, maybe enjoy a glass of wine if the times had been different. You try to ignore the imposing canopy bed, focusing on the door next to the wardrobe. It is the only exit, save the way you have come. Sword at the ready, you make your way and find the wooden barrier beautifully carved and inlaid with fine patterns of iron threads…and pushed open just an inch or two.

 _Three….two…now!_ The door swing open easily, revealing: nothing. It is an empty bathroom.

You know it is futile, and yet you check every corner before returning to the private chambers of what you now can guess must be Loki himself. Where is he? The green light must have been from his magic, where _is_ he? With a forceful movement, you throw open the wardrobe only to feel the disappointment and frustration grow at the lack of a god. Fabrics of gold, green, black, and blue are parted by the tip of your sword, revealing nothing but a lavish range of clothing, cajoling a sigh from your lips before you can stop yourself.

“My. Such sweet sound you make, mortal.” The musical words have been spoken right behind you, near enough that you felt the breath stir your hair and tickle across your cheek.

It is instinct that drives you to attack, but you never even manage to turn around before cold hands have ensnared the wrist of your sword hand and your throat while his body is flush against your back. With a squeeze and a twist, Loki forces you to drop the weapon, and the clatter of metal nearly drowns out the whimper of frustration.

“You cannot believe a sword would have helped you,” cool lips brush the shell of your ear, “naïve little girl, those much mightier have tried…and failed.”

Fighting to keep control of you mind, you dig through the scattered thoughts that are escaping the growing panic. _No sword._ There is a dagger at your hip and one in the boot, but you are afraid to reach for either in case Loki’s waiting for that very move. _Scream?_ No one would hear…and even if they did, it is unlikely they’d come. No, you are on your own. Long fingers are starting to move along your exposed throat, almost gently as if exploring or caressing the warm skin and when they reach the collar of your leather armour, they begin to push by.

In a panicked hope to distract him, you manage a hoarse whisper. “I d-didn't intend t-t-to face…you.”

“Lie!” The coldness in his limbs is audible in that single word. “We both know you were seeking me, whether you were following orders or not remains to be seen, though I suspect the former as no one would be foolish enough to oppose me of their own volition.”

The words sting because the truth cannot be denied. Going off on your own to track down this madman does make you a fool, but apart from your life you have nothing to lose. No family or friends are left to mourn you. _Stop!_ You refuse to give up, to accept defeat even now. Angry at yourself, at the endless wars or the royals, and the wickedness of this so-called god you do the only thing you can do, smacking the heel of your boot hard onto the foot of Loki as you try to tear away of his grip.

Next thing you know, you are pinned between the wall and the male with such strength that all air is forced from your lungs. True, one of your arms is free to brace yourself against the stones, but the other is twisted behind you back and Loki’s hand is cutting off the airway. If you would survive this, you would be sure to have bruises around your neck and throat.

“Treacherous wench!” The roar makes your ears ring (or maybe it is the suffocation), but when he continues it is with an icy calm that scares you even more than his anger. “Know that I had considered killing you swiftly…or maybe even let you go as proof of my mercifulness and let you live in _blissful_ ignorance…but not now. I will show you which lies you have _lived_ with, suffered under. I will break down you world day by day and I will make you _my_ tool to bring about the ruin of the kingdom you have considered your home.”

Gasping for air, no words can escape you. Tears are stinging you eyes and flowing down your cheeks as the world begins to darken.


	2. II - Captive

You wake with your head pounding and an uncanny feeling that you are wearing less than you are supposed to. Why should you wear more? Your skull rings with echoes from a battle and then the memory returns clearly. _Nonono!!_ Several things happen at once, but the result of it all is that you tumble out of a bed and onto a rug on a wooden floor, but at least you have also managed to reassure yourself that you are, in fact, not completely naked (never before have you been so happy to wear your old filthy breeches and tunic). More over, the only injuries you appear to have suffered are the headache and aching throat…and now your pride.

 _This isn’t a cell._ Tilting yourself upright, you take in the room in the hopes of finding any clues of your whereabouts. Narrow windows are set deep in stone walls, granting you a blurry vision of the night sky outside, but much of the remaining surface is adorned with tapestries and even a mirror by a dresser. An oil lamp is placed on top of the furniture, spreading a decent glow over the room together with the low fire in the hearth. There are a couple of deep chairs with cushions and furs there next to a small table, and then there is the bed. It is much bigger than any you have ever been in, but what is much more disconcerting is the fact that everything is lavishly decorated (this includes the loo which is hidden in a niche behind heavy curtains, but you only find that later).

“I presume the quarters are acceptable?” A soft and all too familiar voice comes from the shadows behind you.

Jumping to your feet, you swirl to see Loki standing by the only door out of the room. The sight is far from what you had been led to expect from the tales of horror spoken by commanders and even the king the one time you witnessed him address the new recruits. There are no horns, or blue leathery skin, no sharpened teeth or black claws dripping with blood. Instead, he looks like most other men. _Lie._ He is taller than any man you have seen and though he is slender, the ropey muscles are still evident under the thin silk of his blouse…but what stuns you are the emeralds that stare from under the raven locks. You try to ignore a nagging truth, unwilling to even think what a part of you has noticed.

“Where am I?” You need answers.

“Jotunheim, of course.” A smirk crooks the thin lips, bringing a sparkle to his eyes. “How could I teach you the truth if I didn’t bring you with me? Welcome to my home, humble as it may be.”

 _Utgard. Prisoner of war?_ “Why am I in this…this room?”

“Would you rather be in the dungeon?” The smile remains the same, but there is a chill to his words. “Trust me, pet, you can end up locked in chains, left to rot in a prison cell if you misbehave. One wrong move and you will feel my wrath.”

No, the god may not look like the monster you have been warned about, but he is still a madman it seems. You have no interest in being dragged from this warm chamber to the cold dungeons, and still it seems like a trap to you. _What does he want from me?_ Afraid as you are to worsen your situation, you still need to know where you stand.

“What are the…rules, pray tell?” You do not take your eyes off him.

He is at you in a single stride, the forefinger hooking under and the thumb resting on your chin while he studies your face with a scrutiny you have never experienced before. The touch is cold, but surprisingly gentle. As his gaze drifts to your neck, his brow wrinkles and mouth sets as if he is dismayed but the shift is gone just as quickly, returning Loki to the cool, charismatic persona you are starting to expect.

“It is simple, really.” Stepping slowly forward, he herds you backwards towards the bed. “You speak only when spoken to. When you _do_ talk, you will address me as King, your Majesty, or your _God_.” The back of your legs bump against the bed and you struggle against gravity. “You will not try to flee…it would be in vain after all.” You lose balance and tip onto the bed, terrified of what the Trickster will do as he bends down over you. “And finally…you will obey my every order without question.” A cold hand trails along the outside of your thigh, pausing only as it reaches the knee. “Understood?”

“Yes…your majesty.” You swallow hard.

“Marvellous, my pet,” he practically purrs.

In a swift motion, he scoops you into his arms and repositions you in the bed before covering you with the linen and furs. For a moment his hand lingers on you shoulder as if he is contemplating slipping under the covers, and the thought itself makes you queasy with fear. It is only as your vision begins to darken and your consciousness slips that you realize he must be bewitching you to fall asleep.

…

It is the sound of footsteps and the click of the door that wakes you. The first thing you notice is the difference in light, the next is the scent of food, and suddenly you are hungry beyond measure. How long has it been since you last ate? It was before the storming of the keep, and of course no meal in the army is a big meal because the provisions are so limited due to the losses of resources by the hand of Loki’s armies. He is had fields burned and livestock slaughtered, left to rot near streams to pollute the water too. The entire country is suffering from it, be it directly or indirectly. Those not fighting are trying to grow crops enough to cover the damages, and almost everything they harvest is payed as taxes in a desperate hope that it will tide them over the coming winter and prevent defeat. People are starving now, yet they all know how much worse it would be if Loki were to win the war.

So yes, you are hungry, and you gobble up the piping hot porridge without barely tasting the honey it is been sweetened with and flush it down with the mulled apple cider. Only as the last drop is gone and you lean back with your eyes closed, does it strike you that maybe it is been poisoned. _At least I’ll die with a full belly._

As faith would have it, you do not appear to be poisoned because even after several minutes you do not feel as though you are about to die. Maybe luck is with you. The thought kindles a flicker of hope deep in your chest, and you decide to test how fortunate you may be. Scouring the room, you only find a pair of slippers and a shawl, but it is better than nothing, so you put it on before moving quietly to the door. It is made of heavy wood, however there does not appear to be a lock, and you can hear nothing through it which spurs you to grab the handle, breathing deeply to steel yourself before you push the door open a smidgen.

Nothing happens.

Boldened, you open the door further and find that the hallway beyond is empty. There is only one way to go, and mighty oil lamps hang from the ceiling, each circle of light barely reaching the next, but still granting plenty of light to navigate the windowless area. There are few doors and those you find are locked (though you cannot find the mechanisms), keeping you on the same path much longer than you like – you will have nowhere to hide should someone come this way. Determined to find a way out, you carry on until you reach a staircase.

Which way? This may have been easier if you knew which floor you were on…still the memories of an unobscured sky. _No trees or buildings in view,_ you reason and conclude that down is the way to go. You are just about to follow up on the decision when you hear voices from below and a door closing above. The fear roots you in place far too long and by the time you regain control of your limbs, you have to sprint back the way you came. Already the footsteps are too close, somehow growing nearer. _Too soon._ Whoever is coming will be on you before you have reached the potential safety of the chamber.

Desperately, you swerve for the nearest door and to your disbelief it actually gives way, allowing you to enter and close it behind you. Still holding the handle, you lean against it, forehead pressed against the polished wood as you try to listen for the footsteps over your pounding heart. They do not pass, merely grow fainter. Perhaps it was a trick of your mind that made you think the person was getting closer. Perhaps it was an echo bouncing against the hard stones of the walls. Breathing out slowly, your body slumps now that the threat is gone.

“Thank gods.” You whisper.

A hollow thud comes from somewhere behind you, not unlike the sound of something being closed or tipping over – in itself a harmless sound if it wasn’t for your current predicament. The sweat from the fear a moment ago seems to freeze on the skin, making the little hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. You haven’t even turned around and yet you know that not only are you not alone, no, you know precisely who’s in this room with you.

“How delightful to see that you have awoken.” Loki nearly purrs even with a diabolical edge to the voice. “Turn around, mortal.”

You hesitate as long as you dare, but eventually your survival instinct takes over and drags you around to face the tall god. He is sitting behind a desk laden with books and paper. Leaned back, the long, leather-clad legs protrude from under the table as an emphasis to how relaxed he must have been a moment ago with a heavy book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. _It was the book,_ the source of the sound before makes sense now. The sunshine is slanting in through a window, broken into spears of light and illuminating dust flakes dancing in the air, diving into the deep hues of crimson and purple of the wine, adding an angelic warmth to the black tresses of Loki’s hair, and setting the green eyes ablaze. Fighting the magical pull, you lower your gaze to break the connection, favouring the floor instead.

“I trust you were not trying to escape?” Every word proves that he knows you were, and you stay silent. “ _Answer_!”

Startled by the sudden outburst, you shake your head profusely. “I was…I wanted…wanted t’see where I was,” you blurt out before continuing, empowered by how you are bending the truth, “wanted to find out where you’ve taken me.” The silence lasts a heartbeat before you add the title, he is told you to use for him.

There is a sound of items being placed on the table, then you see his feet disappearing out of your limited view. Stealing a glance at the surroundings you take in shelves after shelves filled with reading materials, more than you have ever seen in one place. Books are near priceless and there were only very few in the village you grew up in, but it is never been their monetary value that made you love these tomes, rather their secrets hidden within them. Knowledge. Tales of faraway places.

“We both know you are not being completely honest, girl,” the god muses, “still I like the way you lie.”

 _What?_ Your head snaps up, causing the neck to crack in protest at the sudden movement. Loki’s leaning against the edge of the table with a broad grin on his face. He is staring you up and down calculatedly as if stripping you mentally which makes you acutely aware of just how little you are wearing, not to mention how filthy you are. He must have reached the same conclusion.

With a wrinkle on his nose the judgement falls in one short sentence: “You need a bath.”

With a firm grip on your upper arm, Loki brings you down several stairs and past the kitchens (which are bigger than any you have seen before) before ushering you into a new room where you are left alone. Bewildered and lost, you huddle near a wall where you are able to watch the door while taking in the new surroundings. One corner has been lowered to form a sort of basin, you suppose, although you might be mistaken as only a few puddles are on the floor. Also, which speaks against you theory, there are two very large wooden tubs in the middle of the room with little buckets hanging from the sides containing cloths, sponges, bottles and other substances that you do not recognize…and you do not dare to go nearer and investigate. Long shelves are laden with linen and stacks of a fluffy-looking fabric, the wall on the other side is covered with tiles of mirrors above a long table under which a couple of comfortable chairs have been stashed. Everything is made of polished stones, granite, marble, even something akin to jade.

There is ample time to look around, so much so that you begin to worry if you have been forgotten. And just as you decide you might as well make yourself comfortable, you hear the sound of someone approaching. _Not just one…several._

The door open and there is Loki leading an army of servants who all are carrying buckets of steaming water. One by one, they pour the clear liquid into one of the tubs before leaving for more. Not a word is said while you and Loki look on…or rather: you observe the work, but the god is staring at you, unabashed, until finally the last drop has been added.

“Leave us.” None of the servants as much as raises an eyebrow at their master’s order, and when the door closes, he turns to you with a smirk. “Please,” there is a sarcastic edge to the word, “enjoy your bath.”

If you had fooled yourself into hoping he would leave then you would be disappointed because the man pulls out one of the chairs, swivels it around and makes himself comfortable in the leather seat…still watching. It is humiliating beyond belief. _What else should I’ve expected from someone like him?_ Chastising yourself mentally has the benefit of making you angry rather than scared. Fuming, you discard the shawl and kick the slippers aside. You even go as far as to undo and remove the breeches because your tunic covers the more private parts…and then you falter. Not once has Loki looked away. The emerald eyes have darkened and for a second you think his breathing has sped up. _No, it can’t be._ But you know very well that it could. His kind, you have been told, are basic creatures that take what they want, use and abuse, and then abandon their “toys”. It won’t matter if there is someone more suitable for him elsewhere if he needs to quench his need now.

“Tell me, mortal,” his words audible coldness, “where you come from…is it custom to bathe dressed?”

“No…your highness.” _Never “my” highness, though._

A dark smirk grows, crooking the refined lips. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Shuffling to the side of the tub, you hate to turn your back to him even though it is the only way to remain some dignity as you shed the last piece of garment before swinging a leg over the edge, quickly followed with the other so you can submerge to your shoulders without once allowing your captor to see you fully. Knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped protectively around you to form a tight ball made of human limbs, you force yourself to breathe calmly which almost works until you hear the chuckle from behind. _Do not look, do not look._ But of course, you glance over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of Loki grinning.

“Well done!” He even applauds you, slowly. “You managed to defy me without breaking a rule. Quite ingenious.”

Your heart drops as he stands and rolls up the sleeves of the green silk blouse. Your fears are proven right the moment he steps towards the tub, and you involuntarily angle your back towards him as he comes to the very edge of the container. He rummages in the buckets, his hand appearing in your periphery to add a few drops of some pink liquid and moments later a handful of what looks like salt and herbs which clouds the water after the first few fingers. _He’s gonna eat me!_ The fear is childish, illogical, and almost possible to deny especially as a scent of flowers mixes with the steam rising around you. _Lavender and pine needles._ Memories of summers long gone flutter alluringly in the corners of your minds, nearly within reach when you feel a sponge on your shoulders.

“No need to fret,” the maniac of a god soothes, “I am a kind master. If you behave well then I will reward you.”

And it does feel much better than you want it to as Loki scrubs your shoulders and back gently, then one arm at a time before washing your hair with something foamy that leaves your hair softer than ever before once he has rinsed the suds out.

“How –“ You bite your tongue to stop the words from spilling out.

The big hand has frozen mid-motion on your shoulder. It feels like an eternity before he speaks. “I shall let your insubordination slide this once, but do not take it for weakness. Now ask what you wanted to.”

Swallowing thickly, it is a struggle to find your voice once more. “How does the water stay clean despite all the dirt from me? Your highness.”

“Good observation.” The sponge is rubbing circles along your clavicles, pushing you sternly backwards until you are leaning against the wooden side. “Surely you must have guessed it by now?” At his words, green and golden tendrils spread into the water only to dissolve immediately, being replaced by a rise in temperature.

The steam increases, wafting around your flushed face and making your eyelids heavy. You feel your head lolling until it comes to a rest on the edge of the bath tub. _Such luxury._ The closest thing you have ever come to a bath is when you have jumped into a lake or a stream…which more often than not would be a chilly affair. Somehow, the lethargic sensation means that you do not really care as Loki straightens first one leg and then the other to wash them meticulously. You barely protest as he unfolds your arms that have still been shielding your bosom. _It’s just a sponge._ And it is until it is not, and long fingers are tracing the curves and peaks which no man has touched for a long time, making you fight against the effect of the steam.

Swatting his hand away, your body slips on the wet wood causing you to submerge completely (with the exception of a leg that kicks water over the side of the tub) and in surprise you gasp, inhaling the perfumed water. It burns your lungs, your nostrils. It blurs your vision. Panic claws in your chest, scrambles to expel the liquid.

Something holds your tight, _an arm wrapped around my waist._ A new force appears to be at work in your chest, clearing the water by pulling it out as if a hand had reaches in and grabbed the dangerous drops like beads. Your spine arches and chest rises to help push the last bit out and finally allowing you to collapse into the embrace of your saviour. In the corner of your mind, a voice is yelling that it is no hero coming to your rescue, but darkness overtakes you once more.


	3. III - Clean Slate

A fire is burning merrily in the hearth when you come to in the large bed. There is no lingering burn from the water you inhaled, only the benefits of the bath have remained, and you have even been dressed in something, and had your hair brushed and plaited. A shiver passes through you at the thought of who might have done this…but you feel no other changes to your body. _It’s been so long, surely I’d feel if he’d taken advantage._

Sitting up carefully in the bed, you examine the delicate fabric of what turns out to be a shift. White silk, the like of which you have never worn before, has been embellished beautifully with stitches of green and golden thread – a colour scheme that reminds you of your captor once more. Pushing the covers aside, it takes you a moment to relocate the slippers and then the shawl. It is not that you are cold, the room is warm enough now that the fire is burning, but it is comforting to feel the thick wool shielding your shoulders and back…not to mention it covers the obscenely low cut of the shift on your chest. _Creep._ If only you had your old clothes, you would not even be averse to the dirt and blood as long as it were _your_ (prudent) belongings.

A quick search of the chamber proves that nothing better to wear has been added, but there is one new item. The fingertips stroke the spine of the leather-bound softly. Dark red replaces the ribbed brown on the back and front with the exception of the corners, and golden lettering is artfully emblazoned in two different styles and sizes. Lifting it, you are surprised at how heavy it is. A foot tall, the length of a hand wide, and the width of a hand thick, it feels heavy as a brick. _Why do they write to much?_ Riffling through the pages, you have to accept that whoever has written this work must have had too much time because the pages are thin as a hair and there are thousands of them, it seems.

“Consider it the beginning of your education.”

Heart in your throat, you spin around at the sound of Loki’s slippery voice. _How does he move so silently?_ It could be magic, but does that kind of powers exist that a person may roam a place unseen and unheard – or is it simply skills such as any other a normal human could learn with patience and training? It makes no sense to ask him. Besides, you have much bigger concerns.

“Are you not going to thank me for this gift?” He asks as if your silence has not angered him.

“Thank you, your…highness,” you blurt out, taking a step back, “it’s just…what am I to do with it?”

A bemused snort escapes him. “Why, read it of course.”

“You assume any commoner in the country you invade can read? You know little of the people you intent to rule!” You see the brow arch. “Sire.”

This time you do not back away even as he steps to stand right before you, towering high above your small form. A scent of flint and pine needles fills the air around the two of you, reminding you of the dark forests near the mountains, and the stones of the quarries where your father worked each day…and the bath not long ago. Worst of all is the urge to reach out and touch the bit of skin exposed through the split of the green, silk collar. _What am I thinking?_ As if to distance yourself to the craving, the man, you hold up the book blocking the view.

Then it is taken away and you are met with a puzzled face. “There is much to correct, but let me begin with this…” he sighs, pinching the bridge of the nose, “you do not know how to read?”

“Of course not!” A monster like him has no right to mock you on the shortcomings his attacks on your homeland have fostered. “None but the richest or the royals have that opportunity, thanks to _you_!”

It happens almost in slow motion. You see your index finger stiffen and poke harshly at his chest to emphasize the last word, hitting muscle so hard it may well be stone rather than flesh. Even the pop and crackle from the fire is muted as you realize how far you have gone and just how severe the consequences may be. A low growl erupts for Loki’s chest, reverberating through the finger and making you snatch it back. _Run!_ You never make it one single step before cold fingers close around your throat, pulling you so close your foreheads nearly touch.

“Do NOT blame me for your or your nation’s shortcomings!” he hisses. “And NEVER try to school me, mortal, you will find me perfectly educated on the state of the world and you pathetic attempts will only anger me…you do NOT want me angry!”

Gasping for air and tears stinging in your eyes, you would have agreed if you could speak or move, however all that remains possible is to claw at the cold wrist and hand in a hopeless effort to pry it off. Desperately, you try to kick, loosing the shoes in the process which is easily deflected anyways without the god once breaking eye contact with you. _I must be losing my mind_ _or maybe it is the lack of air_ , either way you image a crimson invading from the rims of his eyes not unlike fresh blood seeping into water, but you have no time to dwell on it as you feel yourself dragged and tossed onto the bed.

It is a mad scramble as you fill the rattling lungs greedily with air, never once stopping your attempts at fleeing (even almost making it off the bed), until the heavy body of your captor is straddling you, stretching your arms above your head and restraining them there. You refuse to scream as you keep kicking furiously the best you can. No one would come to help anyways, unless to help _him,_ and you do not want the sadistic bastard to have that victory too, just like you won’t stop fighting as he twists to grab your ankles.

“Cease your struggle!” It is with a certain pride that you hear he is puffing slightly. “I do not intend to hurt you.”

“Liar!”

Loki abandons his attempts to secure the kicking limbs, returning instead to hover above you. The pale face is framed by strands of long black hair that have escaped the string at the back of his head, but more obvious in the current position is the erection that is pressing against your hip bone. Bloodshot eyes (surely, that must be what they are) are roaming your face, lingering on your lips, then your jaw, before continuing. A grunt of disapproval escapes the man, but the reason for his displeasure is fixed as he loosens and removes the shawl that has managed to stay on through the struggle.

Now you lay beneath him, only shielded by this silk and you can feel the cold of his hands as they skim your arms, brush tenderly down your sides before one is brought back beside your head to support the weight of Loki so he can lean forward. Your breath hitches when his tongue darts out to wet the lips as he takes in the view of exposed collarbones and soft slopes of your breasts that disappears under the embroidered fabric.

It is only natural that you squirm at the touch of the fingers tracing a path from your own lips, dipping to follow the length of the neck before finally reaching the chest inside which your heart is racing from fear, from the struggle only seconds ago, or from something else. Loki’s face dips out of view to plant a languid kiss below your jaw, making you gasp in surprise at the tenderness.

“Do you not understand?” The whisper is almost pained in contrast to the brutal behaviour previously shown. “Hurting you would be a crime.” A new kiss finds the crook of neck and shoulder. “You have been lied to always…suffered needlessly due to your king’s and his allies’ greed…no more.”

Cold breath fans your cheek when he pushes himself off the bed. Standing above you, a shuddering inhalation is the last sound before he leaves you bound to the bed and alone with a turmoil in your soul and body.


	4. IV - Gilded Cage

You are not restrained for long, thankfully. Loki appears briefly to release you but does not utter a single word. Later a servant arrives with clean clothes (all dresses of fine fabrics and lavishly embellished) who helps you dress. She too leaves without giving you any information on what will happen. Another equally silent servant arrives with more wood for the fire.

Hours pass with nothing to do but walk about in the room, stare out of the window, and tend to the fire. By the time food is brought to you, it seems as though you have been starved for days. _Perhaps time passes differently? Maybe the windows are enchanted to show me the wrong time of day?_ Either way, your stomach is growling at the sight of the steaming meal which is carefully served upon the little table by the fire together with a fine glass and a carafe of wine. You should at least hesitate to consider the option of poison in this meal despite the safety of the last, but it seems a waste of effort for the god to go through all this trouble only to kill you in such a manner (not to remind yourself that he has not seemed averse to violence). And so, you sit for the first time in one of the wide chairs, almost getting swallowed by the cushions and furs until you manage to rearrange them.

Grilled fish, vegetables, some type of mash. All of it smells of herbs and spices, most of which you cannot identify despite the mouth-watering effect it has. The cutlery is finely wrought of silvery metal. _Perhaps the knife can serve as a weapon._ It looks spindly, but it is better than nothing. For now, however, it will continue to be used as intended by the maker. A satisfied hum escapes you at the first bite.

“Glad you like it.” You almost choke at the sound of Loki. “No need for that, I’ve brought you something.”

 _That’s easy for him to say!_ There is plenty of reason to fear the madman and whatever he may have brought, so it is with a wary mind you watch him walk over to take the remaining seat. In his hands is a stack of books, all of them considerably thinner and with lettering on the spines that somehow is…simpler. Clearer. Gaudy colours grace some of the volumes.

“Please…you can continue your meal,” he urges, a smirk dancing on his lips, “I will show you these in the meantime.”

Not daring to enrage him again, you do as you are told trying hard to enjoy the taste of the food like with the first bite though your appetite has gone. Putting the stack aside, the god grabs the first book and holds it up for you to see. Only three letters are at the front and he points to them, as if explaining to a child, and announces that they spell out “A B C” which (according to him, at least) are the first three letters of the alphabet. Inside the book, each page is devoted to just one letter, and pretty images of things beginning with that letter (again you have to trust Loki on this) are depicted in pastels.

“Tell me, what is your name?”

It slips out of you before you can think better of it. Flipping through the pages, he reaches the page where the first letter in your name should be rendered and judging by the images, it may be correct.

 …   LOKI’s POV   …

Putting the cutlery aside, the young woman, [Y/N], reaches out for the book with eyes round with wonder. Of course, he lets her hold it and watches as she traces the letter with a slender finger. He can almost recall the same wondrous feeling from his own discovery of the treasures words can hold. The power.

“What are the others? Your highness.”

 _She still feels compelled to show I am not her king in any way she can,_ Loki muses, but does not comment on it. Taking the children’s book back, he leaves through it until he has spelled out her name. In this moment, there is no fear. The air between them sings with victorious curiosity, sending warm ripples of her scent each time she reaches for the book to study it closer.

Then he takes another from the stack and opens it for her to see the pages with him. The smile on his own lips cannot be supressed when she scrunches her nose and wrinkle her brows in an effort to find any semblance in the few lines of text on each paper. _This will be much easier than I thought._

“Your food is getting cold, little mortal.” And then he begins to read for her while she finishes the dinner.

…   READER’s POV   …

One day takes the other and a pattern starts to show. The morning includes a lavish breakfast with exotic fruits followed by a warm bath. Unfortunately, you are no longer taken to the bath hall by the kitchens, rather a smaller (though still full sized) tub is brought to your chambers each time and both filled and emptied by a flock of servants, people who do not say a single word to you…in fact some even scowl although you try to be kind to them, reminding yourself it is not their fault they have been born to serve someone like Loki.

It is odd, though. Looking at these people and their master, one would not think they hail from the same kingdom because these beings have subtle signs of the horrors you have heard ascribed to the god: nails reminiscent of claws; teeth too sharpened for comfort; lumpy scars and tattoos littering what skin there is to see. Their skin…each has an undertone of grey or blue reminding you of frost-touched mountains. It makes your own skin look as if it is burning in comparison.

Having people attend to you is disconcerting, making you heave a sigh of relief when the last one has left, locking the door behind them. If you are to be alone, then you would rather be so without anyone around you. And so, you while they day away in solitude, silently happy for the books that give you something to do with your mind – learning to read is not a skill most people possess and if you ever make it home again, then you know your fortune will be made thanks to this.

 _Home._ More than once, you catch yourself staring out the windows (on a good day even pushing the glass pane aside to let the fresh air and shafts of sunlight in). Somewhere out there, maybe behind the forest at the horizon, is your homeland suffering under a decade-long war with the very same person whose prisoner you are. Because that is what you are. No luxury can change that you are locked in this room, held at Loki’s mercy until he bores of you…but so far, he has not. Each evening he arrives when your dinner has been brought and sits to read for or with you.

Tonight is no exception, and though the book he is reading from is too complicated for you to master your skill with you are hanging at his every word. He is telling a vaguely familiar story of the creation of the kingdoms. He calls them “realms”, but there is no doubt he means the same. Once there was peace (everyone knows that), but things changed as kings and gods broke treaties and grew greedy. The worst wars were between Asgard and Jotunheim, and the peace was new like the first leaves after the winter when the king of Midgard sought to grasp his opportunity, delving into a strife that still rages.

“No, that’s not right!” you exclaim with indignation. “Your highness, you cannot make me believe we- my country, my king would attack unprovoked?”

“Unprovoked?” A chuckle escapes Loki. “Resources and greed has been the motivation for worse deeds throughout history.” Reaching to the floor, he grabs a roll parchment and spreads it on his knees.

During your time in the army, you have seen enough maps to recognize what you are looking at although most of those hadn’t been anywhere near as detailed or for that matter featuring the entire world! All the maps you saw had to depict where to go to find the enemy. Blue and red lines zig-zag through the pastels of green and any variety of earthy hues you can think of, sometimes punctured by larger blotches of the first colours. Black dotted lines lead to the red blotches and you find lettering there.

Testingly, you begin to spell your way through a word that looks oddly familiar. “S-sjo…ö…sjöb-leek…lik. Sjöb-lik…OH! Sjöblik!” The capital of Midgard is penned out carefully on the map.

“Well done.” One of those unreadable glints plays with the green of his eyes, but it is gone and he is pointing at the mark. “That is where your kings sits, safe and sound while his loyal subjects fight and die for him.” He points to a red line between Midgard and the area to the east. “This border had been unrivaled for centuries. After the war, truce came about due to the death of the former king of Jotunheim, Laufey, and many thought this realm defenseless. Leaderless. They were wrong, as it turned out.” Loki chuckles coldly.

Again, indignation and rage bubbles within, making you slam the glass of wine you would been holding on the table with a clang. “How _dare_ you?!” He does not answer, does not even look at you. “Look at me! You call yourself ruler. You mock _my_ king for hiding behind safe walls, yet don’t you do the same this very moment? Why should I believe a _word_ you say to discre–“

He is upon you faster than should be humanly possible, one grabbing your hair to force your face upwards while the other is raised as if to strike you. Instinctively, your jaw clenches, but the hit never lands.

“By Odin’s –“ He pauses to look you over and blow a wayward strand of black out of his face – “Why did I think it was a good idea to take you in? You do not _want_ to learn the truth, stubborn mortal.”

“Learning’s not the same as accepting everything without question!”

A sharp tug of your hair tilts your head painfully, but it is the hurt in his eyes that silences you. “You think I would simply lie to you?”

“I know some of the names you go under. Silver tongue. _Lie smith_.” Your eyes are beginning to prickle, still you do not look away.

“And yet it is lies you seek to hold on to.” Seemingly lost in thought, he clicks his tongue a couple of times. “I suppose there is only one thing to do, then.”

Loki’s got you on your feet and drags you along. Thankfully he is favouring a grip on your upper arm rather than pulling you by the hair like some savage. At first the path is familiar: down the corridor and the stairs until reaching ground level, then the path differs and soon you have lost your way. _It doesn’t matter, he won’t leave me ought of sight._

The two of you come to a halt to allow him a chance to open a smaller door that leads you into what must be some sort of storage mainly housing clothes and fabrics and... _my gear!_ It is all there. Boots, leather armour, breeches, all of it. You grab it eagerly, happy to hold something that feels familiar. Safe.

“Change.” The god smirks at you from where he is leaning against the closed door. “And be quick about it.”

There is nowhere to hide from his gaze. Resigning, you tug at all the silly ribbons to loosen the dress which soon pools on the floor, allowing you to continue. All the time, you feel the bile of panic burning in the back of your throat. Even at the encampments on the way to and at the front, your fellow comrades had had the dignity to allow the women to sort their affairs in private, yet this so-called god shows no such manners. _He is no king. Never will be._ Finally dressed like the night you fell into his trap, you look for the few weapons you had.

“Do not be foolish. I would not trust you with my life.”

The words sends chills down you spine. _Yet I have to trust you._ There is no reason to voice the thought, because he must know what any sane person would think when at his mercy.

Silently, he leads you through the courtyard to the stables where he orders the stable boys to prepare his horse. The saddle is surprisingly simple, you manage to notice when an enormous steed is brought out moments later. Black like his hair, the beast blends in well with the night despite the torches and braziers. Standing before you, it bows its head to smell the shaking hand you present to it. _Please, be kinder than your master,_ the prayer loops in your mind, and it is rewarded by the soft nudge of a muzzle begging for strokes and scratches between the ears although you have to stretch to reach.

All too soon, the calm moment ends. Loki lifts you onto the back of the horse before following swiftly and settling behind you. No matter what you do, you cannot avoid being pressed against his chest, caged by his arms and legs as he nudges the animal forward in what soon turns into a dashing gallop through the impenetrable darkness. Gripping the leather of the saddle tight, you try to focus on the movements of the horse rather than those of the man even as he sometimes slips an arm around you waist to pull you tighter. _He’s simply making sure I don’t try to escape,_ the logical side of you reasons…even when his nose is buried in the hair by your neck.

“Now listen carefully, pretty mortal,” the cold  breath speaks in your ear, “I am taking you to the front, but I cannot have you betray our presence once there, so I will cast a spell to silence you, and I will be carrying you tied up to prevent you from doing anything…foolish.”

Naturally, there is a lot you want to say to him about that. _Appease him._ Yes, if you play his game then you might be lucky that he lets his guard down long enough for you to get away because surely, he cannot carry you all the time. Probably. Strong muscles are pressing against your back, butt and thighs, and somehow you do not fully believe that normal stamina has anything to do with any of…him. Also, there is his magic to consider.

“I know you are weighing you chances.” Once more a cold hand finds your midriff before blatantly sweeping over your chest ( _thank the gods for the barrier of the leather armour_ ) until finally coming to rest on your throat. “I cannot recommend it, although it would a delightful change of things to truly hunt you down.”

Now _that_ you believe.

The horse comes to a halt in, judging by the smell and sounds, a forest. How the creature and the god can have navigated the place without running headfirst into a tree or something is far beyond logic. You want to ask, but the hand on your throat burns hot and cold, stealing your breath away as your windpipe spasms uncomfortably. It is not painful, simply…wrong.

“ – !” None of the curses leave your mouth.

Feeling the air stick in your lungs, your tear Loki’s hand away, your nails digging into the skin before he manages to restrain you.

“Shush, breathe. Just breathe.” Somehow, he manages to soothe your frayed nerves. Shallow gasps turn into deep inhalations that in turn combat the tension in your shoulders, neck and chest. “Much better. I will restore your voice once this endeavour is over. Now, we have to walk from here.”

You feel him sliding away, and although you do not hear it, he must have landed on the ground too because a moment later his hands are on your waist and he pulls you down to stand next to him, both of your wrists in one of his large hands. Familiar golden-green-glowing dust emanates from his fingers and lights up the narrow space between you as it coils around your wrist where it turns into metal, cold and hard against the skin, but by then the light disappears. Blind once more, there is no warning before Loki hoists you onto his back and wraps you legs around his hips where he keeps them pinned as he begins to move effortlessly through the night.

The jostling motion continues for a long time, or so it feels, and you almost cannot believe it when you finally see a flicker of fire between the black silhouettes of tree-trunks and bushes. As Loki reaches the edge of the camp, it is evident that this is no little outpost.

The colours of the Midgardian army can be seen everywhere despite a thick layer of dirt and the worn condition of the fabrics, both a telling symbol of the state the forces are in. Most are asleep, exhausted and hungry as they are it is impossible to truly get any rest (you remember this all too vividly), and the few that should be on guard are fighting the urge to mimic their comrades. _They’re not fulfilling their tasks!_ The enemy is walking through the camp, silent as a cat he moves from shadow to shadow and not a soul stirs as he passes, allowing him unchallenged access to enter the biggest tent in the camp.

In there, things look different. You have never been inside any other tent than your own (which was more of a shelter than an actual tent) and you are stunned at what you see in the soft light from the embers in the firepit. An actual cot is covered, improved with furs and a few cushions so that the man sleeping there suffers none of the hardships his men does. Of course, you expected the captain to have more favourable conditions, they were all thanes or chieftains and as such their status would merit certain comforts. But to see this leader snoring comfortably next to a low table with the unfinished scraps of his meal made you shake with anger. Chicken, vegetables, barley-mash, even fruit and wine! More than he could eat and drink, which contradicts everything you have been told on the “consequences everyone suffers from Loki’s invasions”.   _Apparently, some suffer less than others._

“Look.” The god’s whisper makes you reposition your head to his other shoulder so you can get a clear view at the item he is pointing at.

On the table (a _real_ , proper, wooden table) are documents in gnarly handwriting, but it is a crudely drawn map that has caught your captor’s attention. The borders are familiar thanks to the landmarks and the letters inserted in the rivers’ flow. The arrows signaling troop movements and planned battlefields, however, tell a different story than the one you were told by your superiors. According to the orders you had listened to, had memorized, the Midgardians were fighting to take back their own lands which had been stolen by the instigator Loki who, according to your king and commanders wanted nothing more than to wipe your homeland off the face of the earth. That is not what the map shows. Each arrow crosses from Midgard to Jotunheim.

“See that river?” Loki points to a set of somewhat parallel likes snaking across the parchment. “This used to be the border. You can even see the old line has been blurred, here.” Tapping his finger to indicate where for your sake. “We would need to walk west for two days before reaching where Midgard _ought_ to begin.”

Having no words, you are left to nod mutely. Whether he cares remains a mystery to you because he has become engrossed in the letters, studying the (for you) impossible handwriting before stuffing them inside the leather armour together with the map. _When did he change?_ Only now do you realize that the refined shirt has been gone for a long time, replaced with an outfit similar to the one he had worn the night you found him. _It doesn’t matter._ Why should you care what he wears? Truth is you do not, of course. The whispered sound of metal calls you out of the nonsensical babbling of your mind to see Loki leaning over the bed, a long knife gleaming in his hand for half an eternity before it is plunged into the unsuspecting Midgardian. Bloodshot eyes flutter open, locking briefly with his killer’s. Then they see nothing but the emptiness of the afterlife.

You have seen people die before, both naturally and by the hands of someone else. Witnessing the murder of this gluttony commander, it is the fact that you do not feel sorry for him that shocks you to your core. Lost in a debate on whether or not you are losing your soul, you pay little attention to Loki’s actions as he makes his way through the camp by seeking out the armouries, the enclosures for the beasts of burden. Bit by bit, he sabotages all he can, before eventually returning to the cover of the forest and the darkness there.

“This is what I do.” He still whispers although the enemy, the Midgardian camp, is safely behind. “Each night after we have read, I head out to gather information and delay the next wave of attacks to prevent meaningless bloodshed on both sides. You must understand this too.”

The rest of the journey back to Loki’s keep is passed in silence even though he restores you ability to speak once you reach his horse which has been waiting exactly where he left it.

…

The next evening, the god only visits briefly in your fancy prison to inform that he will be away.

It is a promise he keeps which at first feels wonderfully freeing but soon brings a new emptiness to the stale routine where the only other company grows increasingly hostile and negligent. Meals become simpler (still filling, at least), and the bath is replaced by a single bucket of cold water and a cloth in much the same way that the clothes suddenly are simpler too. You are not lacking anything, as such, but it is clear to you that only Loki has been the reason for the lavish attention you have received before and most likely it is their fear of him, or warped loyalty, that is keeping you alive.

Then comes the day where no one sees to you. Then one more…and one more. You keep the thirst at bay by drinking sparingly from the bucket of dirty bath water, prizing yourself fortunate that you had not poured it down the loo after use when no one had come to collect it as usual. The temperature, however, is a different matter: during the day, the room is cool, but at night the place does little to insulate against the dropping temperatures that penetrate the walls and the glass of the narrow windows. Some mornings, you wake to frost on the furs and pillow, and ice on the water in the bucket. No one comes. You grow lethargic from the hunger that no longer bites and tears at your insides but simply…is. At least sleeping can take your mind away from it.


	5. V - Limits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well....here's the thing...this chapter should have warnings for pretty much every single thing except language. So...yeah...be warned!

You hear the shouting but cannot be bothered to look around for what is happening. Only when the noises turn to screams do you attempt to sit up although each movement makes your head pound and spin. It takes a few tries and by then it is quieting down again but you still struggle to open your eyes that have begun crusting together, dry like your mouth and throat from too long without anything to drink. Squinting through the haze, you can see someone slumped on the floor in the hallway. _Is the place under attack?_ Slurred thoughts dance in and out of your mind, constantly eluding focus although a part of you attempts a certain optimism in the midst of your weakened condition. Perhaps the Midgardian forces have been able to finally move past Loki’s defenses? Someone will find you, bring you home? _They can’t._ The rejection surprises you, although not as much as your own silent laughter, and you collapse back into the bed just as someone enters the room.

The voice is familiar. Strangely comforting. Gentle hands examine you and lift you into the arms of the person. _Black hair._ Soft words are cooed as encouragement to cooperate, but they are not needed as you neither can nor want to resist as a glass is pushed to your lips and the cool content dribbles in. Greedily you suck at the rim, slurping the liquid into you as if your life depends on it…which it does. That is why you whine as your caretaker stops administering the drink.

“Mmm-mo…” Despite your efforts, your voice falters.

The man, because it is a man, has understood you anyways. “I know, but we must take care, pet. It seems  you have gone too long without wet or dry and we do not whish for you to get worse.” He returns you to the warm embrace of the furs, allowing you to drift in and out of sleep.

Each time you wake he is there. Tending the fire, proffering sweetened water and later broth for you to drink…or simply sitting by the bedside watching over you. As your health returns, so too does the knowledge of what has happened and who is playing nurse. It should make you wary. Instead it comforts you. Soon, you can sit up in bed unaided and eat solid meals which Loki himself brings you, and you actively strife to regain you strength through exercise in the brief moments the captor and guardian leaves the chamber.

It is after one of these intervals, where Loki has been gone for a while, that you decide to find out what happened. He has brought paper and thin, bark-wrapped sticks of charcoal for you to practice your writing while he himself sits nose deep in a book. Crooked letters and raw sketches of people only you remember litters the page before you…however, one is a figure slumped against the wall.

“Lo-your highness?” _No fault in staying on his good side._ He hums in a manner you interpret as a go-ahead. “When you came back…what was happening? Was the keep under attack?”

Green eyes bore into you as if to discern what you know, but eventually his face transforms into an emotionless mask. “It was not,” he offers coldly, “however I expect any servant of mine to follow my commands. Failure to do so has consequences.”

“But the screaming, sire?” The small hairs on your arms and neck are standing to attention.

The smirk is dark. Gruesome. “Consequences.” Closing the book, he puts it down and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Understand this, my pet, although my servants do not understand much of what I do or why, they have been warned never to disobey me or mistreat anything belonging to me.” A cold hand pushes a strand of escaped hair away for your face. “Those at fault have been punished to set an example for the rest to understand that I, their new master, will tolerate nothing less than pure loyalty.”

As frightening as the words are, coming from a monster with the powers of a god, it is something else that catches your attention. “New master?”

The chuckle is surprisingly warm. “Yes. Do you recall we spoke of the Aesir-Jötun War?” You nod. “After the death of Laufey, someone else was sent to rule Jotunheim under the watchful eye of Odin. To ease the transition, a descendant of Laufey, but one who had lived his entire life in Asgard, was chosen. In blood from Jotunheim. In allegiance…to Asgard.”

The schemes of royalty and their rich allies had never been something you spent much time considering. Things were as the were and you could do nothing to influence the events either way. Still, listening to Loki, you can see the strategical value in the choice. You can also see that his whish to be called king is not as far from the truth as you had hoped because the king of Asgard would undoubtedly back up the claim.

“That’s where you went while you were gone…back to Asgard…”

Reaching over, Loki takes the writing tools from you and puts them aside on the dresser before returning to his spot. He sits in silence. _Perhaps he’s contemplating what to say?_ You can feel his gaze burning on any part of you that is visible from the furs as if he is evaluating your condition, assessing the effect of the treatment he is subjecting you to – successfully. Though still emaciated, there is a healthy glow to your skin and your body is beginning to seem a bit fuller. Not much, but enough to help you stay warm, stay awake. He has taken better care of you than you would have expected when he first caught you.

When Loki finally speaks, it is with a severity that startles you. “[Y/N], what are your thoughts on the war between our nations?” His hand is resting on the fur where your knee is hidden beneath.

It is strange to hear your name on his lips, but that (as well as other of the names he calls you) is becoming endearing. “I…” You pause, because frankly you do not know what to think anymore. “It seems that I don’t know all there’s to know…” An image of a commander sleeping in a tent stirs in your memories. “That we, us common soldiers, haven’t been told the…the entire truth.”

Instead of pulling away when he reaches for your hand, you allow him to run his thumb over the knuckles while he talks about the journey that he has been on to visit outposts and fortify the defenses at the front, to meet with allies and spies to attain information crucial to the campaign. According to the god, things are going well, and the Midgardian armies have been forced to retreat in many areas with a minimum of losses on both sides. _Perhaps he’s lying,_ you think, but a part of you objects at that notion. From the little you have seen just of Jotunheim, the hosts at Utgard alone would make short work of the scattered companies trying to cross the border.

You fall asleep to his soothing voice, drifting into a dreamless slumber peacefully.

…   LOKI’s POV   …

[Y/N]’s breathing has slowed to a steady rhythm long ago, but he still finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her thin hand. _I should not be this soft._ And yet, how can he not want to care for this fragile, little creature that she is?

The moment he decided to spare her life, to turn her against her own king and utilize her, he also knew that he would have to treat her much kinder than it would be appropriate in the eyes of his own people. Violence and mistreatment would not be the way to get her to do his bidding. The fierce stubbornness should be guided, not be broken…it is too endearing anyways. And that there is the problem. Somewhere, during her time as his captive, he had begun to see her as more than just a tool and a body he normally would ravish, take repeatedly until he would grow bored and then throw away. The day he returned and saw what his servants had done, he had feared for the Midgardian’s life and it had sent him into a fit of rage. A desperate panic had fueled the violence as he sought out every single one of the people responsible for [Y/N]’s care. And after he was done with them and had tended to the woman’s immediate needs, he had scoured the palace for any who had known of the disobedience. He saw to it personally that they were tied up in the courtyard and then he flogged them. The message could not be clearer: do not betray your king’s trust.

A sigh escapes the sleeping woman, bringing him back to the present. Turning in her sleep, she holds on to his hand and a tiny smile graces her full lips for the first time. She may be a mortal, but the power she is beginning to hold over Loki is unsettling and he knows he will have to do something about it.

…   READER’s POV   …

Day by day you grow stronger and take to pacing the room and seeking any other sort of exercise possible within the chamber. Naturally, it cannot stay hidden from Loki for long, but he seems pleased with your initiative rather then scolding you for pushing yourself and he even walks beside you the length of the corridor and back several times to study your prowess. Dark patches stain the floor as though pools of dark liquid have seeped into the wood, and you try not to think of what it must be from although you know beyond a doubt. Frighteningly, your captor seems not to be the slightest bothered by it. His eyes are fixed on your form sweating under the sudden change in activity, and when your legs threaten to give out under you, he is there to hold you in an almost tender embrace.

“Well done, my pet,” he beams at you with sparkling eyes, “I believe you deserve a reward.”

Without further ado, he lifts you in his arms as though you weigh no more than a kitten and carries you all the way to the bathing hall where he perches you in one of the chairs before calling for water.

Since you were left to die in your room, this is the first time you see anyone else besides Loki and you cannot help to feel a certain apprehension as the servants begin to hurry to and from with buckets of steaming water, but none of them dare glance as you as long as their master is present.

The door closes behind the last one, leaving you alone and safe with the god. _I shouldn’t feel safe._ Yet, you do…until he stoops by you to remove your shawl. Clinging to it, you are painfully aware how little strength you have left to oppose him, but rather than enforce his will with violence he kneels to meet your frightened gaze.

“I understand, little one, but you have nothing to fear.” Slowly, he reaches to cup you cheek in his cold palm so gently that you find yourself leaning into his touch. “Allow me to help you.”

This time you do not object when he begins to undress you, carefully avoiding touching your bare skin until you sit before him completely naked, arms pressed against your chest to shield your self from his eyes as much as the prickling air. With a quick movement he lifts you like a child once more, holding you so close against his chest that his heartbeat is strong through the silk of his blouse in the few seconds it takes to carry you to the large tub.

A sigh escapes you as the warm water engulfs you, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. For a moment that is your entire world: the scalding cocoon of liquid and Loki’s hand still supporting your back. You can hear him rummage with the bottles of scented oils and soon the aromas of pine needles and lavender fills the air around you, luring you to relax and lean back with closed eyes. A part of you prompts you to cover yourself while the god washes your face and hair before moving along the shoulders to each arm with lazy circles of a sponge.

“Move forward so I can scrub your back.”

Silently, you obey, gripping the rims of the tub for support as you press against your thighs to rest the chin on the knobbly knees. There’s soft splashing of water and you feel the waves kiss your face, still it is not before you feel two strong limbs slither past you on either side in the tub that you realize that Loki is sitting behind you, his legs barely grazing you skin. A hot fear rolls over you, stealing your breath in the process. Flashes of memories present themselves in quick succession: the tight grip on a throat, wandering fingers across breasts, and the hard erection pressed against comparatively small body. But it is the sponge that touches upon your back, stroking in lazy circles to allow the oils and herbs in the water to affect the tense muscles.

At some point, he hands you the sponge, prompting you to clean the last areas. Happy to be allowed to see to cleaning your private parts, you do as you are told, deciding in turn not to object as cool hands massage your shoulders. Somehow, as your own hands move downwards, you find yourself leaning into Loki’s embrace, smothering a moan of appreciation at the sensation of his chest against your bare back. Reaching between the folds at your core, you cannot be bothered to be surprised at the slickness there that not even the water can completely rinse away. _I shouldn’t want this…_ but it is needless to chastise yourself for the smoldering need and growing trust that has arisen between you and the god.

Strong hands move to your hips, pulling you flush against him with no effort to even attempt hiding the stiff cock that presses into your lower back, coaxing a tiny gasp from you. Cradling your head, he lowers it to his shoulder, granting a view of your body disappearing into the milky waters.

“Let me –” a soft kiss on your jaw punctuates the sentence – “make you –“ this time the kiss lands below your ear – “feel –“ on your shoulder – “good.” The last kiss is on your neck, making you sigh in delight.

Loki is surprisingly gentle as he explores your curves. The big hands that have grabbed with near untamed strength on other occasions are now stroking and massaging every inch of skin, often favouring your breasts and the tender nipples that happily perk in response to his ministrations. The first soft moan escapes you when cool finger dance on a hidden path from hip to apex of your thighs. A shudder of anticipation and apprehension runs through you as Loki strokes along the folds while nudging your legs apart with the other hand before it returns to cup your breast.

The god is skilled with his hands. Playing you like an instrument, he soon has you creating the most sinful sounds and arching under his touch as waves of delight rolls through you each time he strokes, circles or adds pressure all the right places. More often than not, he slips a couple of the long fingers inside your burning core to find new ways of calling forth waves of growing sensitivity. Your own hands can find no rest until you bury your fingers in the black tresses to pull yourself closer to him and you feel a growl reverberate in his chest, feel his cock twitch against your back. Whatever the simple action has released in Loki, you feel the shift in his body and in the way he holds you tighter while kissing and nibbling at your neck before finding your lips.

That is how you topple over the precipice. Lips locked in a first kiss, his arm possessively holding you to his chest, and his finger playing with every nerve of your core. You ride out the orgasm on his hand. Each guttural moan swallowed greedily by the god.

…

_What have I done?_

Somehow, you had managed to fall asleep after Loki had carried you back to your room, but you woke up before sunrise and found yourself unable to chase away the many self-reprimanding thoughts that woke with you.

Pulling the shawl closer around the shoulders, you dig the last embers free from under the ashes and add kindling with practiced hands. Soon, the flames are dancing eating happily off the firewood, casting long shadows that leap and dance with each flicker. _I shouldn’t have let him._

Dressing yourself is bothersome due to the silly ribbons and impractically flowy sleeves (even though you have carefully chosen a dress with as little embellishment as possible. If this is the fashion of noble women, then you are more than happy to remain a plain girl from the country side. In the little village by the quarry, there is no room for these delicate fabrics and frilly laces. _I should never have left – look at me now!_

Then you make the bed and sit to practice the writing, carefully tracing each letter to spell out your name, Midgard, the capital Sjöblik, and Jotunheim (although you are fairly certain you must have gotten that one wrong: J-O-O-T-U-N-H-A-Y-M). Running out of names, you start scribbling your thoughts onto the paper, allowing your memories of home to guide you until you grow frustrated with your own lack of speed. Words are slow and clumsy, you feel, and the charcoal begins a different dance across the page to depict the jagged mountains so high that the snow never leaves the pinnacles. The darkness of the forest skirting the slopes rubs onto your fingers, finds the fine lines of your hands to nestle in before becoming smudges on anything you touch. _Filthy._

The part of you that is an obedient Midgardian who has been raised to serve her king unquestionably feels a suffocating guilt that makes the bile turn in your stomach. As long as you remember, everything in your life has been a question of what the king needs to secure the country. Your father worked for many years in the quarry together with your two older brothers until the captain came to the village and drafted them to the war. But the king needed his taxes regardless, so your mother took over her husbands work while you kept tending to the livestock (both your own and the rest of the villagers’).

It was not enough.

Next year when the tax collectors came, they took the old cow, the handful of sheep and all but one scrawny chicken. Unless you could get to town regularly to buy food, then you would have to hunt or fish. But hunting was forbidden, and even if you had had the money the town was too far away. So you went to the quarry with your mother one morning, and while the workers went to their daily task, you sought ought the foreman hoping to be accepted as a day labourer. That is when it happened. The rumble of falling stones overpowered every other sound, the earth shook, and you knew. You just…knew. You did not need to run to the site of the collapse for any other reason that find the one or two survivors. Without warning you were alone.

That is why you had left to join the king’s army. Maybe, you had thought, you would be lucky to find your father or brothers or at least get news of them. Were they even alive? As it turned out, the probably were not because the battalions they had been in had been unsuccessful in their raids of what had been called the reclamation of Midgardian territory in the north.

Now you know better. _Well, if I can trust what Loki says._ If only you could find out more. Words spoken many months ago come back on dark wings. What once sounded like a threat from the god is now becoming a promise, a viable option to consider: become a tool, a spy to gain access where Loki or other of his allies cannot to learn what the Midgardian king and his supporters are plotting. Find the truth.


	6. VI - Purpose

Loki and you are walking through the halls of the keep. He is constantly talking about the history of the country and its people, drawing surprising parallels to your homeland. It is true, that he could most likely tell you anything and you would not know any better because the few details you know of the past have been passed along by the fireside in the winters when the elder were telling stories from their youth or their grandparents’ times. Now you find yourself hanging to his every word.

“The Jötun are not traditionally a united people as you know from the Asgardians or the Alfheimars,” the god is explaining, “and this has made them wary of everyone outside their own clans, their kin.” Loki continues to explain their old laws of blood guilt, where the first one to draw the blood of another for any other reason than self-preservation is at fault.

Pondering this, you walk in silence next to the tall man before finally saying out loud what you have concluded. “Sire, does that mean that the mistrust together with the…ongoing conflict…” You do not want to actually label it as an invasion. You cannot do that. Yet. “That’s the reason for leaving me to die? It’s the closest to vengeance without straight out killing me themselves. Passiveness means they haven’t drawn blood, so to speak?”

The tall man walking beside you, studying you carefully, stays silent. Together you enter the great hall, and whatever was on your mind is gone. Logically, you are well aware that this keep is far from the grandeur of palace in Sjöblik with its polished, coloured marble and creamy sandstones, and the golden decorations which add an aethereal atmosphere to the place. This hall oozes raw power. Dark, roughhewn slabs of granite glittering in the torchlight while massive wooden beams bring an addition to the warm glow with their amber hues. Still, the long benches and tables, a multitude of different furs, and a firepit as long as five men lying head to toe creating the centerpiece are not enough to draw the attention from the throne in the far end of the hall.

“Is that…glass, your highness?” The heat of the fire is behind you already as the two of you step closer to the crystalline structure.

A soft chuckle erupts from deep in Loki’s chest. “No, little mortal, it is not glass.”

You let him pull you up the few steps of the dais to see the god take his seat leaning on the armrest with the legs casually splayed. A slight motion brings your gaze to his pelvis before you can stop yourself, and you feel the shame heat your cheeks.

“Feel for yourself.” His smirk is audible, creating a suspicion that he is not only referring to the throne.

Choosing to ignore his lewdness, which you are beginning to suspect is the best course of action in these cases, you trace the armrest with the fingertips finding the surface to be cold as…

“Ice?” Palming the surface, you feel a wetness form where your hand touches the seat of the king.

“Yes. That is our true element, we thrive in the cold of winter.” Quick as a snake, he has wrapped you in his arms, locking you in place on his lap. “Besides, in the winter there is time for other activities that bring heat.”

Squirming to get free quickly proves to be a bad move on your behalf as you can feel Loki’s excitement through the layers of clothing you both wear. Mortified, you stop moving, unless considering the rapidly beating heart. Even your breath is shallow, timid in fear of what something as natural as a moving chest might cause.

The chuckle bubbling from within the god’s chest floats into the cool air surrounding the throne. “Ever the shy little flower, but I know what you desire, mortal.” A hand works its way under the dress and shift to find your thigh prickling with goosebumps. “There is no need to play coy.”

“ _Play_?” In your outrage, you manage to push yourself partially onto your feet before he drags you back down. “Sire, I’m not pretending anything! It was a moment of weakness and I _won’t_ give in again!”

His face is hidden behind you, and still you know that he is no longer amused. A drop in temperature is the first warning, the painfully tightening grip is the second. But the chill in Loki’s voice is what truly gives it away.

“Be careful what you say next, little mortal.” Thin lips brush lightly against the shell of your ear in sharp contrast to the rough way the god is handling you. “What _do_ you want?”

“I wanna know what’s really going on!” you nearly yell in exasperation before clasping your hand to your mouth, afraid of what he might do to punish your insolence.

The dangerously familiar cold hand circles your wrist and tugs at it, gently but insistent, to free your self-imposed muzzle. Then Loki flips you around on his lap easily, so you straddle him chest to chest, locking your arms behind your back which makes it impossible for you to turn away. For a second you are lost in the cold beauty of his face with the sharp bone structure and the eyes full of a smoldering darkness capable of making you forget time and place. _Get a grip!_ Blinking furiously, you begin to trace the intricate pattern carved into the ice of the back of the throne. _Don’t let him enchant me._

“You will explain what that is supposed to mean, pet,” Loki purrs, but the cold is not gone from his voice, “and you _will_ look me in the eyes as you do so.” _Spine like a worm,_ you scold yourself when your eyes meet the green emeralds he has been bestowed. “Now talk.” A silent battle rages, but you lose it the moment he speaks your name.

“Your highness…” Your voice falters slightly, but you carry on. “I thought I knew what was going on…why we were fighting against the Jötuns and why the _obvious_ enemy was you.” Needing to swallow, you grab the chance to consider the next words carefully. “My people are starving, suffering from disease and the great sacrifices made for the cause. We’ve all lost people dear to us…some more than others…”

You had thought the first death would be the only one. In your sorrow, you had returned to your childhood home and retaken your place among parents and brothers. You had been wrong.

“Who did you lose, my dear?”

Startled by the gentleness in Loki’s voice, you answer without thinking. “Everyone. My husband, parents, brothers…” Biting your lips, you focus on breathing deeply.

“That is why you joined the army.” Something strange flickers in his eyes. “The women of Midgard are not required to serve, they have to volunteer.”

It is true. Where men of all ages have to comply to their king’s call, the women are not bound so because they are considered less resilient. Perhaps the difference is greater among the nobles. Whichever the reason, you had quickly succeeded in the training and were send to the front.

“You know what I and anyone else were told,” you shift the subject from the more personal aspects, “ ’the Blue Monster of Jotunheim is attempting to destroy all of Midgard and it’s only through sacrifice that we can succeed’…or so they said.” Closing your eyes, you can still see the king on his balcony, addressing the new troops. “It never occurred to any of us that our king might be lying, our commanders living a different life than that of the rest of us…” a sigh escapes you, “and part of me can’t accept it because trusting you goes against…everything I learned until the day I tracked you down.”

His hands have already loosened the grasp, now they rush to cup your face tenderly, making your eyes meet once more.

“You _did_ seek me out of your own volition that night,” Loki murmurs, “hoping to kill me or be killed.”

There is no reason to deny it, so you just shrug. Tears are stinging your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, refuse to show any weakness. And really, you have lived to get a glimpse of the truth. _At least a possible alternative to the truth._ It means you will have to either trust Loki blindly or that you observe and listen, considering every new bit of information until you have found the truth on your own…whatever that may be.

“You’ve done as you promised, sire.” You force a crooked smile. “You’ve broken down my world, but I won’t give in to see _any_ enchanted creation you please in its stead! _I’m_ gonna figure out what’s real and where my place in _that_ world is. Even if the Midgardian king has been plotting and scheming…well it doesn’t mean that you’re any better.”

“Yet I can give you the skills and tools you need.” The calculative stare is unwavering, and you know he has a very valid point. “And I will not let you go freely.”

 _Of course not_ , still, the admission is frightening. “Why not? What risk do I pose? I have no home, no loyalty.”

“Easy for you to say when you possess valuable information about my forces and abilities.” Loki’s smile is unnaturally broad. “No, you will not leave Utgard yet…but I will teach you everything you need to become a spy infiltrating your homeland.”

Oddly, that does not mean he releases you from his grasp, and as the seconds and then minutes drag by in silence, you feel a toe-curling awkwardness steal over you. Loki, however, is unfazed. Long fingers rearranged the yellow fabric of the dress before moving on to the armrest. You try to not watch. You most definitely try not to think of what those fingers are capable of. Thankfully, your captor is too occupied with what he is doing to notice the heat in your cheeks. _What is he doing?_ Nimble digits move over the glistening surface, revealing a miniature scenery of mountains and forests stretching into the air. It can only be magic. No sculptor would be able to create such detailed figures without the most delicate tools. The ice forest contains a range of different trees, though most are pines like in the woods at home…squinting, you lean closer to study the landscape. Jagged mountain-arms stretch around the little village at the side of the glacier stream, and you know before laying eyes upon it, that you will find a quarry.


	7. VII - Getting into Shape

Daily walks with Loki helps rebuild some of your constitution, and each time the god notices improvement, he finds some task or exercise for you to undertake. Although some chores are less tempting, you don’t mind because it gives you something to do, not to mention a chance to understand the way of life in Utgard.

The new task of the day is even one you have been hoping to be given. Standing in the stables with a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow, the joy of working with or near animals is bubbling within you, making you giddy as you look up at the giant black horse. Already, you have zoned out Loki and the conversation he is having with the stable boys in the guttural, rumbling language of the Jötuns – none of what they say makes any sense.

You had managed to sneak an apple from your breakfast tray, hiding it in the pocket of the dress you have been given to wear for menial tasks. It is a bit big for you, clearly made for a Jotun who generally are of bigger stature. Maybe it is made for a child? Either way, the rough material is comforting to you because it is what you have been used to, and it is much warmer than the flimsy silk gowns which are not made for the winter that is settling over the kingdom.

A soft muzzle nudges your shoulder, making you realize that you have lost yourself in thoughts. Mumbling an apology, you give the horse the fruit and enjoy the loud munching, adding to the companionship by stroking the smooth neck of the beast. Even the strands of its mane are silky to the touch, threatening to sidetrack your thoughts again. The silent exasperation rolls through your lungs, then you begin the work.

Once upon a time when life was normal, you had become the one to tend to the larger animals of the little village although they were not shared property. But the three cows, one donkey, two mules, and a score sheep and goats mixed were easier tended to in a single herd, allowing more villagers to work at the quarry or tend to other tasks benefitting everyone in the tight-knit community. All hands were needed. From a young age, you spend full days in the pastures before the new enclosure stood finished, and after that your time was divided between the animals and seasonally dependant chores. You grew confident in the much larger beasts presence, learned to understand their behaviour as easily as if they spoke to you.

“Come on now,” you mumble to your new companion while nodding at the wet hay below the enormous hooves, “you don’t wanna step in _that_ , do you?”

A huff and shameful shake of the mane provides the answer, and a nod to another corner of the stall is enough to get the stallion moving. _He’s so gentle._ Patting the creature as a way of showing your appreciation, you resume the work of cleaning out the dirty bedding.

Side-eyeing the black horse, you keep talking gently to him. “What do I even call you, huh? Can’t just call you any silly ol’ name…”

“His name is Magni.”

Maybe you manage to hide how the voice startles you. You hope so. There is no reason to look for who is answering you because even if you had not recognized Loki’s soft tone, there is still only one other who speaks your language. _How long has he been standing so close, watching?_

“Magni.” You stroke the horse’s flank before dumping the last pitchforkful into the wheelbarrow.

“One of the boys will take it from here.” Loki announces.

The secretive curl in his voice is slightly unsettling, creating a cool seed of worry in your guts that grows and begins to bloom as you follow the king of Jotunheim through the courtyard and out the heavy gates.

It is the first time you set foot outside the castle grounds during the day, and even the view from your chambers have not prepared you for the endlessness of the landscape on this side of the old fortress. Standing on top of a giant hill, the landscapes fall away in rolling waves of faded green dotted with shrubs and ragged cliffs on which lichen grow. Here and there is a birch tree, naked against the cold winds that flattens grass and whirls leaves towards the grey clouds that are hanging heavily above. Further off are the rivers and dark woods of evergreens. _Whoah._

“Yes, it may appear a harsh or even unforgiving land to most, but I find Jotunheim holds a beauty best appreciated in the changing of the seasons.”

The comment could have been meant as bragging. _It’s not._ There might be a lot to learn about him because, truth be told, nothing you had been told had turned out to be right. Months around him had not proven quite as fruitful in terms of getting to know him as you had hoped, and yet… _Oh! No! Not going there again!_ A warm knot is already forming in the pit of your belly, matched only by another heat in your cheeks. You don’t want to look over at him, nervous he might be watching you for any reactions. He may be an enigma to you, however, a suspicion that the god is able to read your mind is increasingly prevalent. He is in your mind, under your skin, appearing in dreams that have no business appearing let alone starting an aching need between you legs. So now you stand beside him, looking over the rolling hills of this wild, rugged kingdom and knowing that you cannot escape even if you tried because this world is an unforgiving one.

Outside the shielding walls of the keep, nothing keeps the wind away. Tearing at you clothes and hair, it sends a chill into your bones and a shiver is setting in.

“Here.” Loki wraps a cloak around your shoulders and fastens the clasp under your chin. “It is time you learn about the area.”

It is wonderful to be out and about despite the slight worry that creeps in as the two of you move away from the solid structure that has been your prison for soon two seasons. Thoughts are racing through your head, analyzing everything about the situation and any potential reasons might have for taking you out here. _Kill me?_ No, he would not have a problem doing that at the keep, he has proven that before. _Imprison me elsewhere?_ That would be impractical, considering how much time the tall man spends in your company. _Have his way with me?_ The idea does not scare you as much as you do ( _that_ does frighten you, though), but either way it is still just as unlikely as murdering you. Each idea becomes more and more farfetched, granting you no peace. This is how it has been since Loki came back and practically saved you. _Was that planned?_ Nothing in your world is right anymore, fueling a desperate determination to find out what is going on then. Maybe, as things begin to make sense, the strained tension will dissipate.

Rounding the top of the hill brings the forest visible from you windows into view. An arm is stretching for the keep and it is towards that that Loki now strides, his long legs carrying him so fast that you sometimes have to run a little bit to keep up – not that you are sure you really want to, but being left alone in a distinctively different land than your own is not anything you want either.

By the time you reach the trees, the first snowflakes of the winter are floating down from the leaden clouds to settle in your hair, on the cape. On the mosses that carpet the forest floor in shades not unlike Loki’s eyes when they flicker darkly each time they travel over your form. _No, wait, I wasn’t going to think like that!_ Leafless birch and rowan are replaced by the spruce and fir that shield better from the cold but strengthens the shadows until the two of you are walking in perpetual dusk. It is all too easy to imagine the dangerous creatures roaming the woods, and it urges you to stay closer to the god leading the way. Thankfully, he has slowed down.

It feels like hours before he finally stops, making you bump into him because you no longer have been paying attention. For a second, you freeze with fear of what Loki will do as he reaches out to you, but he only wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into his lap as he sits. There is no part of your body that does not ache. Knees are weak. _Finally._ Looking around, you see the seat is simply a large, flat stone placed almost perfectly in a circle of taller granites shaped by rough carvings. Old figures are staring down with empty eyes below horns that turn into ridges creating swirling patterns adorning their naked bodies. Naked bodies with surprisingly detailed…parts. Though you are no virgin, it still makes you blush.

“Makes one think, does it not?” Loki asks playfully, his hand drifting to your thigh, and you watch it with apprehension. “These are ancient carvings made by the ancestors of the Jötun. My people.”

Before your very eyes, the hand of the god changes. Transforms. The fingers grow a bit longer…or maybe it is the entire hand that grows? It does not matter, though, because there are other alterations: skin grows blue like cobalt and dark lines appear before rising into ridges. For a moment, your eyes flash to the crude statues then back to find that the nails now are black and claw-like.

“Look at me, [Y/N].” Loki begs softly.

A deep breath steels you, making it possible to turn to face the Jötun. There are no horns adorning his brows though the ridges are a bit more prominent. _His eyes._ Black pupils in an endless see of dark red. Orbs of blood. _I’ve seen this before._ Vague memories attempt to claw back to the surface, but they do not bring the same terror that you once associated with Loki’s strange nature. Instead, you find him strikingly handsome. Every trait that have haunted your dreams as forbidden desires are enhanced, mixing with a raw tenderness as he exposes what must be his true form to you.

A small frown fails to wrinkle the ridges on his forehead. “You do not fear me?”

“I’m sure you can be…ermm…scary like a monster if angered, but…” You hesitate in order to make sure. “No…I don’t fear you because of…this…” With a vague wave of a hand, you gesture his appearance.

Watching his lips curl in a smile adds to the confusion in your body. He looks truly happy, reminding you of how rarely you have seen joy in his eyes. Your hand cups his face before you know it, the thumb stroking a chiseled cheekbone. _This is his real form._ It should be frightening, as he suspected. The reaction is far from that, instead showing itself as a warm knot in the pit of your belly and an insistent tugging at your heartstrings.

 _I should know better._ The words are meaningless. Stretching, you brush your lips against his. Heat meeting cold and your breaths mingling as the kiss deepens. Loki inhales sharply when you run your fingers through the dark strands to pull him closer, and you grab the opportunity to slip your tongue in.

He has you straddling him soon enough. Blue and, to you, normal coloured hands are tugging at clothes, searching for skin to mark and explore in any way possible. _More._ The aching need between you legs is back, followed by a dampness that begs for contact and has you fumbling with belts and buckles to free his manhood until he stops you by reaching his goal first. Shivers race through your limbs as long, cold digits delve between the folds, spreading the slick and making you moan breathlessly by the time he reaches the sensitive nub. _More_. Suddenly, you can only hold on, hands fisting his black hair and teeth digging into his shoulder to maintain a semblance of decency.

You are gasping shamelessly when he finally retracts is fingers from inside you to undo his belt. _More._ An insatiable craving is eating away at you as you watch him free his cock (also blue and with smaller ridges tracing spiral patterns along the shaft), and you have your hands wrapped around it as soon as you can. Exploring. Pumping gently until his head falls back and he groans softly. _More._ Nimble and determined, you reposition yourself to slide him in. Slowly. The cold of his erection soothing the stretch.


	8. IIX - Winter's Chill

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Hurrying through what has turned out to be a veritable snowstorm, Loki tugs the listless woman closer to his chest while damning himself to Muspelheim and back. _I should have taken better care._ Midgardians are by nature weaker than even the scrawniest Jotun, and [Y/N] is still recovering.

But for a sweet moment, both of them had forgotten it, allowing a deep-rooted passion to take over their bodies and control their actions. His hips had risen to meet her descend on his cock, making the woman groan in pleasure that washed away the last bit of his self-restraint. Loki had even felt a raw pride when, already at the third or fourth thrust, he had seen her eyes roll backwards under fluttering lashes and her body stiffen…next second that victorious rush was washed away as she collapsed. Lifeless. With the restraint gone, Loki had also forgotten to channel his “magic” (as she insists on calling it) to harness the deadly cold that runs in the blood of his kin.

Glancing at the Midgardian’s face, he cringes at the paleness. The blue of her lips. The breathing is shallow and her heartbeat nearly non-existent even though he has poured almost all of his seiðr into her to protect the remianing embers of her life-flame – the rest he is using to keep his own chill at bay, and so it is in his Jotun form that he arrives at Utgard.

He will have to bring her back from the precipice once more. He will have to keep his distance. _There is a way._ Angrily, Loki pushes the thought away while settling the lifeless form on her bed before barking orders to a few servants. Perhaps the king is harsher in his words than normally, but the ache deep inside from seeing what he has done to the Midgardian is vexing. She should only have been a tool, a toy. Now he can no longer pretend to himself that it is pure curiosity or simple greed that drives him closer to her. _Yes, there is a way to prevent this from happening..._ he sighs, brushing the stray hairs from [Y/N]‘s face.

“But I cannot force that upon you, beloved, “ the whisper is for her deaf ears only, “not with the consequences it would entail.”

And still, if ever she were to ask of her own free will, he knows he will grant it to her without hesitation.

...   READER‘s PoV   ...

You know something is wrong the moment you wake. Or…maybe not wrong but at the very least different because you are certain that there were no furs cocooning you in your fuzzy memories and you can both smell and hear a roaring fire. Blinking, stones lit by blazing flames frame a window with snow piled against the outside of it. It is a familiar window. _My window._ The wood of the ceiling holds a similar familiarity, the dark knots forming patterns alike those of nightly constellations. _My room._ It takes a fair amount of effort to wriggle free of the tight fur-wrapping for you to sit up. Each moment makes your body ache with a million complains.

“How are you feeling, [Y/N]?”

Looking towards the fireplace, you find Loki sitting on the edge of a chair. Darkness is circling his eyes and there is a frown not just weighing on his brows but tightening his lips too.

“I’m cold,” you answer truthfully, “through my bones, almost my heart. Loki, what happened? We were…were in the forest? At the circle.” Memories are coming back to you slowly. _Oh…right._ “I…we…did I do something wrong?”

The barking laughter startles you, and maybe the god too because he stops just as abruptly. “No, my pet, the mistake was mine.”

Finally, he comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, tugging the furs around your shoulders despite your weak protests. Studying him, you can faintly see lines on his face and hands, but otherwise there are no indications of his true form which he had revealed to you. _He’d been nervous._ But how can you not admire him for what he is? The stories and tales of the king of Jotunheim have all been lies, fed to your people to keep you in line through fear though the reality is another entirely. Instead of full-scale war, Loki apparently favours stealth and sabotage to hamper the Midgardian forces’ invasion. Though he is unforgiving and harsh against disloyalty, he is still able to care deeply for those who appear to deserve it. Even now, he is nothing but gentle, worried even, as he tentatively places a warm wrist on your forehead to check for a fever.

“What d’you mean?”

His emerald eyes contain a pain you have rarely seen on him. “I became too…eager. Forgot to take the proper precautions to protect you. Please forgive me.”

“There’s no need.” The words just come on their own, surprisingly you with their honesty. “Loki, what can I do to…to ermm…” Now a heat is crawling back, even if it is only in your face.

His voice wavers, when he stops you. “Shush, little one, do not fret over such things now.”

You recognize the soft darkness that envelops you and try to protest, but with it comes a bit of warmth.

…

Next time you wake, there is a new sound mingling with the crackling of the fire. Peering over the heavy furs, the endearing sight of Loki asleep in one chair with his long legs resting on the other adds to the growing warmth inside you. As silently as possible you worm out from the covers, find the largest one, and tip-toe over to the sleeping god where you carefully place the coat of what once must have been a bear over the sleeping figure. A soft sigh is the response together with a tiny smile.

It is peculiar. When Loki is awake, his lips are a thin line…now they are fuller. Not downright plump, but the calm features have allowed for the jaw to slack and his features to soften, making him less fearsome. This is the grace that you have started to notice within him, the tenderness he reserves for you when you least expect it or when you need it the most.

Gently, you press a kiss to his raven hair before returning to your bed, not noticing how his eyes have snapped open and are following your every move.


	9. IX - Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does get rather NSFW, so read with caution.

The king of Jotunheim has taken several steps backwards in his behaviour towards you, and although he remains kind and generous, there is nothing that can fill the void it leaves within you. Lingering gazes, light brushes of fingertips when passing items to the other person, and now…now the electricity is humming through the air as you stare up into his face while you chest brushes against his. And then the moment is over. Loki retreats, the daggers twirling between his fingers while he waits for you to regain composure.

“No bad, pet.” The compliment is as genuine as ever even though the smile does not reach his eyes. “But you must keep moving, keep on your toes.”

“Yes, your highness.”

The god hesitates briefly at your words.

Since he has allowed you to leave your bed, it is you who had pushed on to resume the tasks he had given to you before the…incident in the forest. Eventually, he gave in, and as you proved your strength was not lost, he has taken to training you better than any of your past superiors in the Midgardian army. You were a quick learner then which is a benefit now as Loki is a relentless teacher who believes in learning by doing. More often than not, you retire for the night with bruises and lumps, but you trace each of them with pride and a careful finger. _This’s what it’ll take._ Day by day, you come nearer your goal of finding out the truth. Admittedly, a sliver of your soul wishes that what Loki has shown you _is_ reality and not just another convoluted scheme build upon lies and illusions… _but I must know for sure._

That is why you fix your eyes on the tall man walking in slow circles around you, mapping out each of his footsteps and noticing the slightest change in his bearing. You are ready when he launches a new attack and throw yourself into the mock fight with determination that earns approving murmurs from the servants passing by.

…

Weeks turn into months and the snow is covering the landscape in a thick blanket that lights up the starry nights. When sleep fails to come, you gaze across the now familiar (looking) waves of white where only the trees or the steepest cliffs stand out as black shadows, making you think of the wet winters of home. Only rarely does the reminiscence drag any melancholy along with it. Why should it? Enlisting, going to war…it is not something you have done with the goal of returning to the village of your childhood.

When Loki is away on whichever missions he has, he leaves you with stacks of books to read. Of course, it is partially to spend the time you would otherwise use to spar with him, but there is no doubt in your heart that he is trying to educate you too. History, politics, religions, sciences. You gobble it up, albeit in a slow pace. Sometimes you have to mark pages because of words that hold no meaning to you. Each time the king returns, he allows you to ask him all the questions you want on what you have read, and eventually he expands what is becoming a tradition with debates on the covered subjects. His sharp wit and sharper tongue teaches you to find the right arguments, making it harder to distract you from the topic at hand.

Each day, you tend to the black steed, Magni, and this is often where you take refuge whenever Loki is gone for several days. Then a servant will come looking for you, beckoning you to follow them back into the keep where a meal or maybe a bath will be waiting. The Jötun never speak to you, most likely they do not understand your language, but at least they are no longer hostile and so you find yourself thanking them however you can for the tasks they perform for you.

The winter continues to darken. Your skills continue to grow. And day by day, step by step, you come nearer the day you are waiting for.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

The servants are exasperated at the antics of the Midgardian, but Loki merely chuckles and encourages her to continue sneaking through the shadows or climbing across the heavy beams overhead. Silent as a cat she moves, practicing balance and her skills with the tools of a thief. But no matter how often she startles any of the Jötun, the king knows that none of them would dare harm her. Not anymore.

He too can be quiet, weaving through the secret passages to listen in on conversations. Unseen, unheard, he learns of his servants’ growing adoration of this feisty, little creature. They have come to see her as one partly of their own, not just Loki Laufeyson’s pet. Of course, it had helped when he had explained to them what the woman was doing in the keep, why she was not an enemy. Still he had feared that no words spoken from the throne would be enough to compel them to see reason.

…

Putting the latest correspondence from Valhalla aside which he is supposed to be reading, Loki reaches for the glass of mulled wine, but stops midmovement at the touch of cold metal against his throat. The hairs in the back of his neck stand on end and the heart skips a beat to allow him to fill his lungs with air, searching for a scent to recognize.

“What’s that? The great king caught off guard?” The soft giggle dances around him. “You looked so thoughtful, I couldn’t find it in me to disturb you.”

No longer worried, Loki presses against the blade while reaching for the wine. As expected, it gives way just enough that the edge does not bite into the skin.

“How kind of you, pet,” he smirks into the glass, “you have me at your mercy.” _I know what I would do in your place!_ Images of slender limbs and full curves flash before his inner eye, and he has to bury the ideas before they can tempt him to take matters into his own hand.

Behind him, however, the Midgardian stays silent save for the faint rustle of fabric. Then a long strip of fabric lands in his lap, tempting him to test the resistance of the knife [Y/N] still holds to his throat.

“A-ah!”

It is impossible to determine whether it is pure playfulness in her voice…or something else. As a precaution, Loki leans back again, allowing only his fingers to explore the object. Then the grey shawl lands silently, causing his heartrate to speed up. One by one pieces of garment appear, only few preceded by a wobble of the knife, but even the sharp sting is not enough to deter the images flooding Loki’s mind as equal parts thrill, arousal, and fear threaten to take over. _I cannot give in!_

Softly, she whisper into his ear, her heated breath fanning his cheek. “Close your eyes, your majesty.”

He does as the woman asks, cursing at himself for the weakness. There is no sound, just the heat radiating from her body to indicate that she is now standing before him then the pile of clothes on his lap is removed to reveal the bulge of his crotch. Loki does not feel ashamed for it. Why should he? But the sharp intake of air makes his heart ache as much as his cock because he knows that he cannot give in, cannot grant her what she wants.

“[Y/N]. This is futi–“ A finger on his lips stops the words.

There is a trace of sadness in her words although the determination nearly drowns it: “We both know there are ways around that. Please, Loki, don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

Hands find his ( _when did she remove the weapon?_ ), guiding him to the naked hips where the soft skin puckers with goosebumps at the touch and he cannot help but tighten the hold, to explore the curve of the woman’s ass and waist, feel the strength of the thighs that are made for wrapping themselves around his hips when– The sigh that escapes him is prolonged as he feels her body slipping in his grasp, but only until he recognizes the expanse of her belly passing beneath his palms followed by the gentle bump as the ample bosom finds rest in his hold. Warm and soft. Nipples perking as Loki slides his thumbs over them. The hitch in her breathing is evidence on the effect too.

It is a trial to keep his eyes shut when he feels the nimble hands undo buckles and buttons to reveal his fully erect manhood, but he is determined to let the Midgardian have this as a prize for managing to sneak up on him. Still, the resolve wavers as his hands are pushed aside and it crumbles completely the moment [Y/N] begins the languid caresses, stroking the length of his cock, kitten-licking the tip before suddenly taking him halfway in her mouth.

There she is. Kneeling between his legs, naked for him to see with the wild braid pushed to one side and her head tilted to grant him the perfect view of the cheekbone and plump lips that surround his shaft that is glistening with her spit. There is nothing more Loki wants to do than gaze upon the sight, but [Y/N] swirls her tongue with expertise and hollows her cheeks to create the right amount of suction, causing his mind to boggle and his head to fall back. An entrancing harmony between her hands and mouth brings him to staggering heights, and the god nearly topples over as a purring hum vibrates between the two of them. With a flash, he grabs her by the hair and yanks the prettily flushed face away, earning him a squeak and a playful pout.

“Have to…too close…” The words do not come easily and fail him completely as his eyes rove over her body.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Loki’s eyes are dark and desperate, burning trails across your skin without missing any details. Experimentally, you move your hand to you needy womanhood, slipping a few fingers between the fold to test both your wetness and his reaction. They come back up glistening with arousal, sweet and sour on your tongue as you lick it off without breaking eye contact with the king.

Next thing you know, you are on your back across the desk (its contents clattering onto the floor with no regard for any potential damage) with Loki’s face buried between your legs. If you thought his fingers were able to conjure magic it is nothing compared to his tongue as it slithers around your sensitive nub, adding the ideal amount of pressure again and again, only breaking away to find the entrance to your core now and then. _More._

“Oh, god!”

Your back arches off the wood, and he hums victoriously while pressing you back down with a large hand on your abdomen. Long fingers delve into you, challenging the tightness as you feel your insides clamp onto them, hungry for the friction. _More._ The burning heat of your core creates a sharp contrast to Loki’s cold, making it possible to feel every little thing he does, heightening each sensation and sending waves of pleasure rolling through your body. _More._ Licks, nibbles, and sucking creates a storm within that drives you to the edge. Moans are mixed with pleas. Words come out staccato, broken with the ecstasy the god is conjuring for you.

“My king!” The breathless scream is the last warning before your orgasm hits you hard.

He lets you ride the high on his hands, stilling his movements without removing the pressure on your clit or in your pulsating core. Only as you begin to breathe freely again does he pull away with a hazy smile on his lips, and you know that you are not the only one to find release despite the restrictive conditions.

Not for the first time, it amazes you how easily he can lift you onto his lap although your body is too spent to assist in the transition. It is in his arms that you regain control of your limbs as the shivering high dissipates and turns into a drowsy content, sated for the time being.

“[Y/N], my pet,” Loki murmurs into your hair, sending shiver down you spine, “I do believe you have bested me today.”

The smile you flash him is broad and lazy until you see the serious expression he is sporting. _What did I do wrong?_ Wracking your brain, only one thing comes to mind straight away and you know it cannot be _that_ , because since the very first day, it has vexed him that your way of addressing him was not the one he had dictated…until now. You had not planned to call him your own king. It had just…happened, and astoundingly so without any regrets. _So what is it?_

“There is no more I can teach you in preparation for the quest you have chosen,” the god explains, his words working like a bucket of cold water to you mind, “so listen carefully, my mortal. It is your choice whether you wish to continue down the road you have chosen or if you would rather stay in the safety of Utgard. I will not lie and tell you that your offer of spying on your- on the king of Midgard and his court is unnecessary. Any information, any weakness leading me to the proverbial head of the snake is of value.”

You are not sure what kind of reptile a proverbial snake is, but the meaning of Loki’s words are still abundantly clear. He needs you to become a spy in Sjöblik. More importantly, however (and this is something you have spent countless nights contemplating about): the Midgardians need the endless warmongering to end. You have seen it, lived it. The hunger, the loss of loved ones that only leave hollowed souls behind. And for what? Only a select group seem to gain anything from the constant misery they force upon the nation.

“I won’t break my promise.” Calm [Y/E/C] finds his emeralds, sees the flicker of pain before it is buried by pride. “There’s no way I can hide here, allow things to continue the way they have on the expense of the common folk. My people.”

“It will lead in the king’s death.”

“He’s not _my_ king,” you challenge, “ _you_ are.”

Loki’s lips crash with yours, desperate to memorize the taste as tongues wrestle for dominance that none of you want to give up. You both know the implications of this moment, understand that time might be running out.


	10. X - The King and the Spy

Returning to your homeland is not as simple as you first had expected because you need to enter the country relatively unseen but with enough pomp and prestige to be noticed upon arrival in Sjöblik.

Why?

There are two viable ways to gain access to the court in Midgard while having a chance to listen in on the people in power. One is through subterfuge where no one knows of your presence, but that would require a small and trustworthy number of allies already in place – people willing to harbour a criminal although it may cost them their own lives in case things go wrong. Another way, the one Loki deems the safest, is for you to take the role of a noble lady who has come from far away in the hopes of establishing an alliance between the two countries. It is vital for the cover to be irrefutable in order for this scheme to be anywhere near possible, and so he has arranged for meetings and called in favours abroad.

 _At least he’s coming with me._ Dressed for the cold weather and wrapped in furs, you are pressed against Loki’s chest as Magni gallops across the snowy landscape towards the mountains in the horizon to the west. Behind them lies Asgard which is where the next part of your quest will be set in motion.

Although the steed is faster than any normal horse, the journey takes weeks. Time that is spent jostled about with few ways to alleviate the grinding tediousness as Loki squeezes every hour possible out of the day to travel in. The stops are few and short, even at night when the king shows how well he is suited to the kingdom as he finds shelter from the coldest winds.

It is not the weather that makes you tremble, though. Although you do your best to keep eyes on the target and contemplate any line of action, it does little to distract your thoughts from the fact that the two of you will have to part with no guarantee of seeing one another again. Perhaps your former captor feels the same. At least he holds you tight and murmurs soothing words when sleep does not come easily until he finally places a hand upon your face, willing a dreamless rest to lull you.

And then one day, the mountains are no longer in the distance. Instead they rise tall and impenetrable before you as proof of why this range has been the natural border for thousands of years. Of course, Magni and his master are undeterred, plowing uphill and weaving through the jumble of crags and cliffs hinting at how often they must have come this way before. _This is madness._ The mountains near your home-village were not near as grand as these, but already they had been dangerous during the winter due to the snow above the treeline. These? These are giants in comparison and the winters here are clearly not to be trifled with, meaning that it would be suicide to attempt crossing them.

You open your mouth to say as much, ready to yell against the howling wind, when silence engulfs you. No snow is whipping about, not even a breeze is stirring the silken strands of the horse’s mane. The last turn has brought you all inside a cave partially shielded by large cliffs like jagged teeth which now protects anyone inside from the rage of the elements. You cannot see how far the haven reaches into the stony heart of the mountain, but it sounds as though it may be much further than you are sure you are comfortable with.

“It is no cave, my dear. This passage is ancient, and I am one of few who knows of its existence,” Loki explains calmly as he lifts you off the horse, “I have told my brother of it and he will meet us hallway through…but we have to walk from here on.”

Swiftly the bit of gear is moved from the horse’s back to yours and Loki’s. Magni is already tripping by the time it is done, eager to get out of the dark confines…but not before headbutting you affectionately in return for scratches between the ears. Then the horse is gone, leaving the place colder or quieter.

Even with your eyes used to the dark it is hard to make out much else than dark shades in a lightless void, and you are grateful for Loki’s hand which finds yours and begins to guide you further away from the entrance. Carefully, he leads you over the uneven stone, to where the walls come creeping in until you can hear the echo of your heartbeat which is much too fast for your own liking. And just as you are about to stop, sure that you can go no longer in this emptiness, a green light appears in midair suspended as an orb above the god’s fingertips. It is not strong, but enough to keep the darkness away and to show which way to go, where to place your feet. Best of all, it illuminates the figure that you find yourself trusting more than the king you went to war for.

…

There is no time under the mountains to prove the days slipping away. No sun or moon or stars to show which direction you travel in. It is just Loki and you in an eternity of silence which is only broken by the hushed voices of either you or him – it is too loud to speak normally. Sometimes, there is the distant gurgle of a stream or the dripping for stalactites. It is not all bad, though. There is no freezing winds, no snow that weighs your clothes as it begins to melt, and you have in fact been able to shed a few of the restrictive layers which in turn has had another effect. When the two of you lay down to rest, Loki’s long fingers are able to find ways past the fabrics and furs. Every inch of your body feels his caresses as both of you remove the clothes piece by piece, wanting more than each can give safely and greedily accepting what there is to take.

Then comes the moment when faint voices whisper through the tunnel, making you tense until Loki smiles encouragingly in the light of the green orb. It is part of the plan. There is nothing to fear. And soon you come face to face with a broad man who is smiling jovially as he embraces Loki under the light of torches. Blond hair is tied back, reddish beard rumbling with laughter that stands in stark contrast to the powerful body threatening to dwarf anything in the vicinity. _Thor._ They look nothing alike, _but then they wouldn’t ‘cause they’re adoptive brothers_ , you admonish yourself seconds before your hand disappears in a huge fist.

“Lady [Y/N],” Thor beams, brushing your knuckles with his lips, “your courage is valued in Asgard an Jotunheim alike. Come! The rest of the journey will not be as tedious!”

The words are undoubtedly not meant as an offense, yet you see Loki bristle and decide to stay close to him to keep him at ease while following his brother past a few bends of the tunnel until reaching a wider path. It appears to have been hewn and a few torches are hanging in the ancient sconces. There would probably be quite a bit to learn from studying the surroundings, but your attention is caught by the vessel. _It’s a longboat._ But it is more than that…or something else. You are unsure mainly because it apparently is suspended a foot or two above the dusty floor with no visible ropes keeping it there. Both men are tossing the luggage on board without paying attention to how you are taking in the sigh with your mouth gaping. _It’s impossible._ You have seen magic at work before, so you know what is going on even though Loki’s tricks pale in comparison to this.

“Are you ready?” The green eyes full of concern and a tad amusement manage to capture yours.

“Yes.”

You allow him to help you on board, nestling you snugly between furs before he too finds a seat with his arm wrapped around you. Thor seems content to be given the position by the tiller. At least he grins and blinks before palming a globe inserted in the transom, launching the longboat into a mad speed which makes you want to scream and close your eyes. Instead you keep watching straight ahead, praying to anything and anyone you can think of that the maniac will not get you all killed. Gentle fingers brush away stray hair that has been plastered onto your face by the wind before cupping your cheek coolly. This time you welcome the darkness without objection.

…

A bath and a warm meal have done wonders, but the confidence is faltering as you follow the two brothers through the grand halls of Valhalla towards the throne room where Odin supposedly is waiting for you. _This was not part of the deal._ You swear under your breath as you try to smoothen the green dress, fighting against the flowy material that does nothing to insulate against the air...but then, why should it?

You had slept through most of the journey, only waking occasionally to eat or refresh yourself by the streams you passed as you headed towards the fabled City of Gold (a name you preferred over the actual meaning “Hall of the Dead Warriors”). Each time you woke, the changes in the landscape were monumental as the snow diminished to give room for what looked like an eternal summer. Warm air would waft gently against your skin, carrying on it the scent of flowers and fertile earth. Everywhere was an abundance of life whether it be wild or bent to the will of the inhabitants sowing the fields, tending to the cattle.

Even here in the castle can you hear the distant birds singing playfully, adding a soothing background to the already calm surroundings although neither seem to affect you much. You are dressed like a noblewoman, on your way to meet a king from fables that have been told since before your grandmother was born because Asgardians (and Jötun, you are beginning to suspect) live much longer lives than your kind. _How long has Loki lived?_ The thought morphs in your mind. Just like it is the case with Odin, the stories of Loki predates your own birth even though he looks about the same age as yourself. _How long will he live?_ Glancing up at his chiseled face, you realize the implications – he will outlive you.

Maybe he feels your gaze because he turns to meet your eyes, a wry smile upon his lips. “Odin is old and wise. Do not be fooled by his appearance…he sees and hears much more than you would suspect.”

The king of Jotunheim looks away, dragging your attention along to an enormous set of doors which the guards on duty open without any questions.

The hall beyond is larger than any you have seen before with grand pillars and gold inlaid patterns depicting plants, and creatures locked in eternal battle against fierce warriors. It is with a certain smugness that you notice both men and women in the decorations – no one here attempts to subdue their female counterparts. The same seems to be true for the guards stationed with regular intervals by the walls on either side as you walk behind the brothers who have taken the lead. You wish it were possible to reach for Loki’s hand, but you know this is neither the time nor place for it and settle instead for the safety of the human wall walking in front of you.

Unfortunately, it means that you are unprepared for the sight that awaits you. Thor and Loki bow lightly before stepping aside which is your cue to kneel, but you nearly forget as the scene is revealed: upon the dais is an entire group that surround the golden throne on which Odin sits. He seems old, though by no means weakened. A single steel-blue eye pins you to the place, giving the sensation of seeing into your very soul in a similar way that Loki’s green orbs has done time and time again. As you sink to the floor, you fight to look only at the colourful stones beneath even if you sense the two shadows descending the steps to circle you.

“Father,” Thor’s voice booms through the hall, “this is [Y/N  Y/L/N], the former Midgardian soldier whom Loki has harboured and helped see reason.”

A soft snout grazes your cheek, the breath from it warm and mingling with the smell of dog, and you do your best to ignore it. To supress the shiver running down the spine. Then Loki steps nearer and the creatures move away, allowing you to release the air that has been sticking in your lungs.

“A defector, and one who is willing to actively work against her king.” _My king’s not in Midgard,_ but you do not openly contradict Odin. “Tell me, why should I believe your claim?”

 _Why don’t you believe Loki?_ “Your highness…” A low chuckle from Loki makes you pause, but no one else has heard him. “I suppose that…that I’ve no intention to convince you, king Odin. All I can do’s explain the life I’ve had and how my understanding of…the Midgardian incursion and the deceit of my people has brought me to make this decision.”

Cool fingers stroke your shoulder briefly as a way of letting you know that your answer is acceptable. Thus emboldened, you are able to face the king (the All-Father) when he asks you to and the questioning can begin.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

It is hard to watch Odin’s wolves, Geri and Freki, circle the poor girl without stepping in to protect her, and eventually Loki does give into the urge although it earns him a glare from the king. Few people dare oppose him (and few find the need to), meaning that the rare occasions are ill received – more so when it is Loki who speaks again his father. _Adoptive father._ Once Loki had learned the truth, many things began to make sense and he learned to pick his battles carefully, following the example of the woman who has raised the jotun prince as her own child. This time he stands his ground like a pillar planted solidly for the sake of providing unwavering support to a person lost in a storm.

[Y/N] appears small as she stands before the throne with her fists clenched in determination not to give in to the fear. Part of Loki swells with pride at the tenacity, another part wants to steal her away from the drilling interrogation and the scrutinizing eyes. _I cannot._ No, the Midgardian is as feisty as she is adamant in her decision.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, your highness,” her musical voice penetrates his spiraling thoughts, “so allow me to clarify. I’ve not made this decision, to infiltrate the court of my homeland and spy on my so-called king because king Loki or you need the information.” Shocked murmurs rise and [Y/N] waits for the Asgardians to quiet down before continuing. “I do this for the people. It seems we’ve been lied to. Tricked to serve a cause that doesn’t exist. Abused and suffered in order to maintain a living standard for a select few who don’t care for the rest of us at all. I ask you, Odin All-Father, what makes a nation if not those who dwell within the borders? If the people suffer, doesn’t the country suffer?” Loki can see a greyed eyebrow appear above the patch covering the empty socket and he knows the words have struck a cord within the old ruler. “I _need_ to learn the truth. Need to…to show my people what’s going on. If it happens to serve your cause too, then _fine_ , but whatever I find that’s what I’ll act upon. I won’t become a tool once more, expected to serve, unquestioning regardless of the prize the common folk pays.”

A slight movement by the throne draws Loki’s gaze to Frigga. _You see it too._ The subdued smile on the queen’s face speaks of the same emotions that a whirling within Loki, and he knows that even if Odin himself does not approve of the Midgardian then he will be…convinced by the sweet words of his soulmate. Yes, Frigga understands.


	11. XI - Words unspoken

There is little time once the decision has been made for you to talk with Loki. Envoys from Vanaheim are introduced to you by Odin, and together with the royal family they begin to shape your future by inventing an entire life for you to assume as your own until one day, hopefully, your quest in Sjöblik is complete. _By the gods…what’ve I gotten myself into?_ Yet each time doubt stirs, you only have to think of the squalid life of so many Midgardians, recall the lies being told to those who fight and those left behind; then your determination returns.

Days are spent in a haze of lessons (pretending to be a Vanar requires a minimum of understanding for the language although no one in the Midgardian court should speak it), hours standing still for tailors, and long nights studying the history of both of the nations concerned. All while at the same time maintaining you physical prowess. Sleep comes sparingly, but deep although an occasional dream has you waking up sweaty and with a throbbing need you cannot sate.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

The last night come to soon. Although Loki has done all he can to ensure the safety of [Y/N], he still feels frustratingly powerless. Soon she will be beyond his reach, his aid, on a mission that might separate them forever, and although he wishes to then he knows that he has no right to stop her from going.

 _All I can do is pray that she returns._ Staring into the dusk, he’s only vaguely aware of someone approaching.

“My son,” Frigga’s melodic voice works like a calming balm, “why do you seek solitude rather than join us for dinner?”

There is no doubt in his heart that the queen already knows. In many ways is she the wise one in the royal couple, choosing to observe quietly before jumping to conclusions. It is a method both Loki and Thor have been exposed to while growing up, more often than not finding themselves exposed in the middle of some trick by their mother before anyone else had realized that they were up to anything. Not that it would not have been fair to assume at any given time as the two princes always were causing some ruckus.

Still he tries to pretend all is fine. “Needed some fresh air, mother.” When she does not leave, but comes to stand beside him, looking over the colourful lands, there is little he can think of to put her mind at ease. “It is wonderful to be home again. Smell the sweet air of Asgard. I do love it here.”

From the corner of the eye he can see the gentle smile that curls Frigga’s lips. “You always have had a preference to the sweet and gentle things in life.”

It is peaceful, in a way, to stand there as the sky darkens above them. _I suppose she is right,_ the Jotun king from Asgard muses. The fragility of a flower or a butterfly’s wing captures his attention much more than the wild snowstorms and dark winters that his kin favours. He can find comfort in the cold, of course, but his heart only fills again at the sight of the first green leaf.

“Love is a peculiar thing and too often do we fall short of capturing its essence in our symbolism.” Frigga is not looking at him, just talking to the night and the stars above that are beginning to appear. “We use precious stones to symbolize undying love, but diamonds are hard. Cold and jagged. No, the real symbol for love, if you must use a dead object to represent it, is a pearl. They are rounded, almost soft as you hold them against the skin. And you need to nourish it, work to keep it warm or it will begin to lose its luster, my child, love requires work and dedication every day or it too will fade.” Finally turning to face him, Frigga takes his hand. “But do not forgo the work. When you have found your pearl, do not dismiss it.”

Loki has no words, they are not needed anyways, he simply allows himself to be folded into his mother’s arms as if he were a little boy once more.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Even amongst all these friendly people who have taken to you as much as the mission, the room feels empty when your former captor is not there, and so you only breathe easily as he rejoins the boisterous dinner. _Dinner._ To the Asgardian this appears to be nothing special. Apparently, they dine like this every night, and according to the few servants you manage to question it is hardly more lavish than the meals of the common folk. Sure, there is a greater variety on these tables, but that anyone should starve while the court feasts? The very notions seems absurd to them. _It’s possible. If they can do it, then so can we!_

But still, despite knowing that no Asgardian is hungry tonight, you find it hard to enjoy the food. Excusing yourself early, you cling to the hope that there is peace to be found in sleep…though the explanation given is the need for rising early in the morning due to the long road ahead.

Naturally, Loki offers to walk you to the guest chambers, and you are partially thankful for it as you still find the golden palace difficult to navigate. On the other hand, the silence in the endless hallways decorated with marble, gold, and crystals becomes oppressing as neither of you dare to speak, and so you make it all the way to the door before you open your mouth.

“I want to –“ you begin, but Loki has chosen that exact moment to talk as well. A few confused seconds pass before you nod, smiling shyly at the awkwardness. “Please, you first, Loki.”

For a second, he looks lost before seemingly reaching a decision. “Perhaps I should apologize, little mortal, for taking you prisoner.” A sly twinkle is brought back to his eyes.

“Hardly! I came looking for you.” It is hard to keep a serious façade at this odd conversation. “Besides, you haven’t exactly treated me badly. So don’t worry, you can sleep without fear of blame.”

Wanting to end the night on this lighter note, you turn to leave.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Catching her hand, Loki stops [Y/N] on her way into the chambers she’s been given for the stay. ”Perhaps so, but I would hate to see you captured again. Stay out of trouble.”

The crooked smile manages to brighten her eyes. ”I always behave, _my king._ ”

 _You are the embodiment of trouble, little pet._ The teasing smile, the way she tilts her hips to enhance the sender waist under the thin fabric…all of her stirs the predatory side of the Jotun and calls forth a rumble in his chest, eliciting a breathy gasp in response. There is no fear in her pretty face, though, only playfulness as she retreats through the door.

”Are you claiming innocence, my pet?” His feet carry him after the slender figure.

”Maaaybe…why don’t you find out?”

The door falls shut behind Loki with a flicker of magic just as he pounces for her. But the little Midgardian is quick, avoiding his grasp and leaving only a giggle behind for him. _The little minx wants to play? We can play._

…   READER’s PoV   …

Feeling Loki’s cool limbs around you and listening to the quiet humming, there is no place you would rather be. Well, that is not entirely true, of course, because right now it would be nice to be back in Utgard…but still. You know you could be content anywhere as long as you were near him. That is why you feel safe in spite of everything. It is why your heart is breaking from the thought that you will have to be apart. _Not right now._ You force the thoughts away, wanting to cherish the afterglow without any sadness, and eventually Loki’s humming brings you to rest. Your limbs are wonderfully heavy, the heat that had coursed through you diminished by the strong and slender figure pressed against you, and you can feel how you are balancing on the precipice of sleep. A soft kiss is planted on your shoulder (one of many), before your king nestles his face in your hair.

”I love you.”

It takes a moment before the words truly makes sense in your drowsy mind. Once they do, however, they elicit a million emotions with each their own response, and in the confusion you do not manage to say anything. All you can do is cling on to Loki because what he has said is the very thing you feel aching in your bones, running through your vein. It is the air in your lungs and now that is has been spent on the words it is as if you are suffocating.   
He makes room for you as you turn to you back and supports himself on the elbow to hover above you, face so near his raven strands are brushing against your cheeks mixed with the flint and pine-scent. There is fear in the god’s eyes.

“Oh Loki,” you manage to whisper, your heart breaking, knowing a world of pain is waiting, “I love you too.” The joy your answer sparks is bright, flaring like the sun on winter snow. “Please forgive me.”

Already, he is showering you in tiny kisses, but he stops at the taste of salt water on your cheeks. “Forgive you? What for?!”

As if in a trance, you see your own fingers stroke his cheek before burying in his hair. “I’m yours. For as long as I live…but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? I don’t _want_ to cause you grief, but unless you can push these feelings aside…” Angrily, you wipe away some of the tears from you face. “You should find someone…s’m’one like you.”

“But it is _you_ I want, my dear.”

Loki has trapped you in a cage made of his body. Knees by hips and hands by head, his frame is both a shield and an obstacle to overcome in the hopes of staving off the worst blow.

Sniffling, the determination you had hoped for is slowly conjured. “I’ve considered it. I _know_ that you’ll outlive me, so spare yourself the pain.”

“What if there was a way?”

The deep sigh wafts through your king’s hair. “This isn’t like…like learning to read or –“

“Yes or no! If there was a way, _would_ you let me love you?” A fire is blazing in his eyes that you never have seen before. “Would you stay with me?”

“I’d be yours as long as you would have me.”

“Then come back to me and I swear I will have found a way for us to live full lives together.”


	12. XII - Stranger in your own Home

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

He had not planned to embrace her like this, to hold her tight against his chest and bury his face in her hair to memorize the floral scent. No, what he had planned was to encourage [Y/N] before sending her on her way with the escort to Ferentino, a large city near the border to Midgard.

”I never meant for this…for us…” His voice breaks.

”It’s okay, Loki.” Hot breath fans his throat. ”We knew I’d have to go some day whether it would be because of this or simply time.”

 _Do not make this worse._ But unsurprisingly, he does. ”Do you regret it? Seeking me out at the battle?”

Warm hands cups his cheeks, forcing him to meet the glistening eyes of the mortal woman whom he has come to care for. And cradled within those [Y/E/C] is the fire of her soul, untarnished despite the emotions battling to take over.

”No.” A flicker of sadness flares momentarily. ”I’m sorry that you will have to be without me one day.”

He shuts her up with a kiss that ends eons sooner than any of them want by the knocking on the door. The voice from the other side is Frigga’s, announcing that it is time.

The queen mother does not comment on the fact that Loki and [Y/N] walk hand in hand. In fact, she does not say anything, but the silence is soothing in its simplicity as opposed to the well of discussions that have been raging lately. And even as the walk brings them to the skiffs suspended in midair, the company boards in amicable understanding of each others’ needs during this last stretch from the palace of Asgard to Heimdal’s observatory.

It is with sense of finality that the little group brings the vessel to a halt. Loki feels his sweet mortal tremble as he lifts her to the ground and kisses her. Then time seems to speed up. Everything unfolds with the pace of a hummingbird’s wings, and before the king of Jotunheim has truly grappled with the events, the iridescent lights of the Bifrost has whisked the woman he loves away together with the escort, leaving him alone in a throng of people.

He does not know how long he has been standing, staring towards the south-eastern horizon, when Thor slaps a heavy hand on the shoulder of his little brother.

“Do not fret, little brother,” the jovial voice booms, “lady [Y/N] has a bright mind, a kind soul, and a brave heart. You will see her again.”

Meeting the blue eyes, Loki knows Thor is convinced of what he says, and nearby is Frigga who nods delicately in affirmation.

…   READER’s PoV   …

You are not sure if the faintness and slight nausea comes from the rushing torrent of light you just travelled by or the ache in your heart as Loki disappeared from view. To be honest, you do not want to know. Not truly. In procrastination, you busy yourself with whatever observations you can make for now before the Vanir will start ushering you along.

The first thing you notice is the heat of the sun and the dryness in the air although you must be quite high up. You have landed on a sort of terrace build onto the tallest tower of the castle below. As such, this is expected. All the reading and meetings with Loki’s allies has prepared you quite effectively all things considered, but still the view of the city below and the landscape beyond takes your breath away. Far below the shingled roofs create a sea of red, brown, and ochre shades that rise and fall until the very borders, a wall of sandy stones. _Looks like the rim of a winecup._ Birds that you only know from the summers at home are swooping from any overhang available, chirping and screeching at the contest they create as they hunt for insects. And beyond the city walls? Rolling hills scorched by the sun, partially distorted by the hazy heatwaves rising from the ground.

A gruff voice comes can be heard over the general muttering. Turning, you see the man in charge of the little group of Vanir. Again, he says the same, but the words have no meaning to you.

“He say we is ready, lady,” a young girl offers as translation, “say you go with us. Governor wait for you.”

Although your language is padded with a strong, rolling dialect it still soothes you to hear the girl speak to you. Of course, you follow the group (it was the plan all along) and try to stay close to her because she is the only one in the escort that you can communicate with. A reprimanding voice in your mind admonishes you for not having learned more of the Vanir tongue.

“You know of us what?” She asks you, her dark eyes glittering with a curiosity that feels familiar.

“I’ve read about Vanaheim and its people the last few days…but my knowledge is lacking,” you admit, “is it true that the Vanir are a mix of Asgardians and Midgardians?”

“Yes, but we not have contact with Midgard for long time.”

And so it is, that you get to listen to the girl explain of a people with a variety in lifespan unlike that in any other nation. Her own mother came from a mostly Midgardian family and as such they lived short lives; her father on the other hand had a large proportion of Asgardian blood flowing in his veins which made him look young still.

“How old are you?” Perhaps it is rude to ask, but the question escapes your lips too swiftly to stop it.

A smile wrinkles the girl’s nose. “I not know exactly. We not bother much about age but just live as we feel.”

Any other questions have to wait, though, because the descent of the countless stone-steps has come to an end and you are met by a party with a noble woman in front. Her ebony skin blazes in stark contrast to the yellow and orange robes, and she is taller than any other woman you have ever seen. Mirroring everyone who bows, you attempt the same level of respect, assuming she must be someone of importance – perhaps the governor’s wife.

“Lady [Y/N], what a pleasure to meet you.” She has the same thick dialect as the girl, but her command of the Midgardian language is better. “My name is Reiphira, I am the governor of Ferentino.”

By this point, you have learned not to be stunned by the differences of other cultures, wishing instead that women could hold positions of power in Midgard like they apparently can in this strange, southern nation. Listening in rapt attention, you follow the governor while she informs of all she has done to prepare for your return to your homelands. Documents in several languages, transportation, even a new escort has been selected on your behalf and is ready to leave at a moment’s notice because time is of the essence now.

A sting of regret worms into your heart at the proclamation, and it must have shown because Reiphira stops and turns to you. “I can only begin to guess at the trepidation in your heart, lady [Y/N]. What can I do to ease you worries?”

“I…I honestly don’t know, madama.” The woman smiles at the title native to her country. “Mostly…I just fear the ruse’ll be discovered.”

The kind smile fades, and you find your hands wrapped in hers in the same way your mother used to when consoling you. “Everything has been carefully planned. Your entourage has ways of sending information discreetly from Sjöblik to Asgard and Vanaheim.”

“Do th– pardon me for asking, but do they speak my language? I’ve not yet mastered yours, although I try.”

Silence sweeps through the airy hall where one wall consists purely of pillars and an open view to the palace courtyard.

“Madama Reiphira,” the girl who had translated for you on arrival speaks gently, “I speak little Midgardian. I go? I can help.”

Furrowed brows smoothen immediately, allowing the governor’s face to light up in a blinding smile, and so the decision is made.

…

The sun has yet to reach its climax in the clear blue sky when you and the odd company have left the safety of Ferentino behind. Strong horses drag a carriage meant for you and the luggage, while other nimbler steeds carry the Vanir…and you. For as long as you can, you intend to ride like the others and observe this exotic country. The girl, Röskva (named after someone on her mother’s side of the family), is happily explaining you everything, pointing out plants and animals to teach you the names in her tongue, and making sure that anything said by the others is understood by you too.

…

It takes three days with increasingly colder weather to reach the border where you are let through by somewhat awestruck soldiers. Another two to reach the town with ferry and barges for rent to transport goods along the river.

Things are worse than you remember. The summer and autumn has come and gone with failed harvests and even higher taxes to pay, and therefor another winter is upon Midgard without enough to eat for the common folk. You insist on giving what food you can spare to the broken family of the ferryman as well as paying him handsomely in the hopes that he can tug some away for harder times…because things will get worse, of that you have no doubt.

Sailing downstream rather than travel by land with the carriage in tow is considerably faster and it is no more than a week before you see the capital emerge through the curtain of rain. Compared to the towns and villages along the river the capital is grand with the spires of the castle erupting from the very heart, but after having seen Valhalla and even governor Reiphira’s domain in Ferentino…well nothing can surpass that, and it is with a growing uneasiness that you watch as you approach the destination. Röskva’s hand finds yours, bringing comfort without words.

…

Any fear you, Loki, or anyone else have had about the arrival at the court are swept away. Put to shame. A clerk merely glances at the documents before sprinting off to bring word to his master, and from there the rumour spreads like wildfire. Within the hour, a fanfare echoes in the grand hall as the doors swing open to allow you audience with the king as he sits on his throne. _At least I don’t have to walk alone._ Röskva and a Vanir soldier (under pretence of being your personal guard) are right behind you as your steps carry you along the near endless green carpet that leads you past ornamental pillars, man-tall candelabras, and the host of nobles who have gathered to watch the foreigner meet the king. Finally, you reach the steps to the dais and stop, fighting each instinct in your body which urges you to spit at him rather than (as you chose to do) kneel. Behind you is the lightest shuffle as your companions do the same.

It is not the first time you see the ruler of Asgard. However, you have never been this close (of course) and you are astounded to realize just how normal he looks. Sure, the clothes are rich and the jewellery dazzling, but the man himself is balding, slightly skinny except for a potbelly, and with an unhealthy complexion – not at all the heroic figure from the stories that are told to the poor people to strengthen their sympathies and support.

“Lady…” A servant swiftly whispers something in the ear of the king as if your name had not just been proclaimed for all to hear. “Lady [Y/N], welcome t’ Midgard and Sjöblik. We’re happy t’ ‘ave you with us.” Polite applause ripples through the room at his words. “Stand! ‘tis a delight and quite a coincidence that you’ve come t’ us. We’ve been ‘oping t’ re-establish the old alliances with Vanaheim. Mmm?”

On your feet once more, you offer him the best smile you can manage and hope he buys it. “That is quite a coincidence, your highness.” You mimic Loki’s way of speaking, soft and distinctive. “Naturally, I am not in a position to affirm any contracts…yet, I do believe my tales of what may transpire while I am your guest could be of value, and perhaps to your advantage, once I return.”

You can sense the hushed surprise titter through the crowd when they hear you speak. Not only is your control of the Midgardian language surprisingly perfect for (in their eyes) an outsider…it even outranges the king’s. But he does not seem to care, all he has heard is the veiled promise of speaking on his behalf. Rich and powerful allies. That is what he needs if he intends to win the bloody war against the Jötun.


	13. XIII - Absence

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Slipping through the Midgardian encampment, Loki has to restrain himself constantly. All he wants to do is let out the turmoil inside by decimating the enemy forces that have found their way across the border into Jotunheim, but he adheres to one simple rule: the only Midgardians dying are the commanders…unless he is engaged in open combat. _[Y/N] would be oh so proud of me,_ the Jotun thinks wryly, trying to ignore the ache the name awakens.

The next target is already in sight, and thanks to the flickering of the fire at the centre, Loki can see two shadows move about with drinks in hands. Now and then they bend over a table, becoming warped on the canvas. _The king’s colours._ A few steps, a roll, and a crouch brings Loki in position with the back against the tent where a large piece of furniture stands inside ( _By Odin’s beard, is it a wardrobe?_ ). No one hears when he slits the fabric with a dagger because they are too busy drinking and dividing spoils they have yet to win. The heavy sweetness of mulled wine and the sour stench of sweat waft past the intruder as he slips in, carefully poised in the shadows for the opportune moment to present itself.

“I’m tellin’ you, Hans,” one of the men proclaims, “I just want the bastard skewered, a round in the hay with his bitch if he has on’…aaand a teeny-tiny box o’ gold.”

Anger rises like a flood in Loki’s mind, sweeping all else aside while he clings to reason with all his might, afraid of being swept away.

“WHA’?! Ye gotta be desp’rate!” The second man is cackling unabashed. “Ye really wanna go a roun’ with _her_? She gotta be a troll or som’thin’!”

A dam breaks, sweeping any self-restraint from mind and heart, and Loki emerges from the shadow with long daggers materialising in his hands in a similar fashion as the horned helmet, his crown. _If they want a troll, they will have it – horns and all._ The first man dies before either of the Midgardians have truly understood what is happening, blood trickling from his mouth as he looks down at the dark blade that has passed through his chest, piercing his heart in the process. He still stands when Loki steps past him, eyes set on the offender who dared speak ill of [Y/N].

The commander’s already pale face drains of all colour. “L-Lok-k-ki.”

“I should make you _suffer_. Let you toil the last of your _pathetic_ , _insignificant_ life away in the deepest mines, bereft of food and water save for what not even the _rats_ would touch!” the Jotun king hisses, bending over the man who has stumbled and fallen in his panic. “But I am merciful unlike _you_ and your kind.”

The commander only answers with a half-choked scream that descends into a gurgle as hot blood foams and flows from the slit throat. _Mimir’s balls!_ Already, there is a scuffle beyond the tarp. Acting swiftly, Loki does what any reasonable god would do and tosses the corpse of the late Hans upon the fire in the center of the tent, plunging the place into complete darkness.

“My lord?” The male outside is hesitant but grows persistent as no one answers. “Lord Ragnar, are you alright?”

It is barely possible to see the tent-flap open for any human being. Loki is Jotun, however, and his eyes have adjusted to the lack of light already. To him, the silhouette of the low-ranking guard that had been stationed nearby is clear against the faint backdrop of other tents and their fires. Quick as the wind, he steps behind the soldier and covers his mouth with a hand while making sure that there is no mistaking the point of a dagger against the unsuspecting human’s throat with something else.

“Do I _have_ to tell you what will happen if you try to alert anyone?”

A muffled sound which Loki interprets as a “no” is the most useful reaction. The other is a distinct smell of piss. Stepping back ever so slightly from the captive, the god is once more reminded of [Y/N]’s description of the common soldiers in the Midgardian army: farmers, miners, crafters, young and old. Almost no one fit for battle and its terrors. Studying the frightened figure, it becomes apparent that this individual is very young indeed. _No more than 15 summers._

“You have a choice, mortal, to either die here or run back home.” The sharp intake of breath passing Loki’s fingers seems to indicate surprise. “Your king is deceiving you, forcing you to fight and suffer for a cause that does not exist so that he may live comfortably. Look in the tents of your commanders. Ask your comrades what they see. _Think._ ”

There is mumbling which grows increasingly insistent until the Jotun carefully removes his hand, allowing the boy to talk. “Ye mean…ye’ll let me live?”

“…yes.” It is hard to hold back the sigh. _Dense human._ “If my intent had been to kill you all then trust me…you would all _be_ dead now. Your armies would be destroyed.”

Clearly, it takes a certain amount of effort before the statement makes sense but eventually the lad reaches a conclusion: “Oh, so tha’s why they only keep needin’ for new co’anders? Ye only kill _them_?” As if on an afterthought a tentative “ye maj’sty” is added.

“Such a bright observation…”

Apparently, the soldier has not learned much about sarcasm either because he straightens with pride at Loki’s comment. Rather than suffering through another minute of conversation with the dimwit, the chat is brought to an end with a hard blow to the head of the boy which renders him unconscious, allowing the Jotun to exit the tent unhindered.

…

He should be resting or at the very least study the reports the spies have delivered, but the only thing Loki can do is reread the single line of text on a crumbled piece of parchment that he received more than a week ago:

  _Everything is proceeding as intended._

Those five words hold all of Loki’s hopes and fears although it is impossible for an outsider to make proper sense of the message.

When a raven had delivered the small note, it had felt as though years of sorrow fell from the Jotun king’s chest. [Y/N] has arrived safely, and not just that, no, she has managed to claim a place in the court without casting suspicion upon herself which always was the biggest risk. The plan could have failed if just one person with weight behind their words had objected to her presence. But apparently, it is greed rather than intelligence that is prevalent in the Midgardian court.

Now all Loki can do is wait for the information he needs. The details that will grant him access to the castle and put an end to the corrupt king’s life.

So he waits for [Y/N], his love, to return so he once more can offer her a life with him – but one that is based on free will rather than founded on the unbalanced relationship of a captive and her captor. Meanwhile Loki keeps occupied by seeking out every single encampment on either side of the border, he travels to towns and villages in Jotunheim to ensure that everyone is getting through the winter without lacking…and he wanders the forest and keep at night because he cannot find rest except in the small room that served as her chamber, and each time he wakes surrounded by her fading scent the absence pains him even more.

Sometimes, he curses himself for having grown so soft, so sentimental, and yet he has to acknowledge that all the changes within may very well be for the better. The incessant notion that he is alone is gone, replaced by a tranquility – or it would have been if it was not for the fact that his lovely mortal is gone. _Why did I let her leave?_ Loki knows that he is to blame. He planted the notion in her head that she could be a spy in the very heart of the enemy’s land and not a day goes by where he does not regret that, causing him to snap at the servants who try their best to tend to his every need.

Loki hears them, listens to their mumbled conversations when they are unaware of his presence. At first, he had been outraged at their worry-full tones. No one were to pity him! Did they not truly understand how powerful he is? But then he notices the affection laced in the words, and although the admiration is tethered to [Y/N], whom they have taken to call Little Queen, Loki is pleasantly surprised that his people willingly extended it to encompass him. Perhaps Frigga is right when she has said that love and patience are not a sign of weakness in a king…at the very least, he knows that the feisty mortal would agree.


	14. XIV - Espionage

Gorm. Of all the names in existence, it turned out the Midgardian king’s name is Gorm. What had surprised you more, however, was the realisation that you had actually never heard his name before which, now that you are thinking about it, is downright strange.

“Are you enjoyin’ your stay ‘ere?” His voice is muffled by the food in his mouth, forcing you to supress a gag. “’Tis wond’ful t’ ‘ave guests fro’ the south, and the chattel ‘ave been ‘structed t’ accomm’date your ev’ry wish.”

That much is true, and you have done your best since arrival to treat the servants decently, ensuring that they have all taken to you kindly. Often, they humour you by telling you things that happen out of sight of the court or sharing rumours (although at first, they had been blushing at the idea of speaking freely with a noble lady). Due to your favoured status amongst the servants, Röskva and the rest of your company are being treated with friendliness and much greater freedom than outsiders normally would. More often than not, the Vanir return to you with descriptions of hidden passages.

“Yes, your majesty,” you smile sickly-sweet, “I am very well cared for. It is a pleasure, too, enjoying the tranquility in the heart of your kingdom. Truly, only a great king can ensure such peace despite the attempted invasion from the north.”

A slight sputtering sound echoes in Gorm’s glass before he manages to recompose himself. _Sensitive subject, old fool?_

“Ahh…yes…” He has to clear his throat before meeting your steady gaze. “I don’t deny tha’ ‘tis a…ahm… _challenge_ t’ erm t’ stave o’ the constant attacks, bu’ the safety o’ the people comes first.”

 _Lie._ “Of course.”

On the other side of the king, his wife leans forward to address you with a weak voice you have come to believe mirrors her mind and constitution. “My _dear_ husband just wants to care for all those _poor_ commoners. He knows that withoot him, they’d struggle to get by.”

The only truly positive thing you have found about the king and queen is the unconditional adoration they have for each other. Of course, you can also rejoice that they are both dimwitted which will make your task easier, but as it is a dangerous combination when paired with lack of empathy, plenty of greed, and the queen’s blind ambition…well, it is becoming evident that the proverbial snake Loki once spoke of has two heads.

…

That night, after the court has retired, you don the dark shirt and leather trousers, tie your hair back, and tip-toe bare feet out of your luxurious quarters. Daggers, a coil of rope, a long thin stick, and a small pouch of powder is the only thing you carry as the castle awaits to be explored.

It takes little time to find the first hidden entrance to an old system of tunnels long forgotten by the court because only the servants use it to move unseen as they tend to their daily tasks.

It is dark within the walls, but rather than risking a light you let your hands glide across the rough stones of the walls on one side and the stick tap softly on the floor, feeling for steps either up or down. _Third side-path on the left_. Röskva had brought you the one tidbit of information lacking to ensure a nightly visit to the king’s study.

You are silent as a snowflake when you push a large painting aside just a sliver to look into the room beyond. The fire in the hearth has been reduced to pinging embers, but it is enough to verify that no one is present, and you slip from the passage, leaving the thin stick behind. Bare feet sink into a plush carpet much too soft to be made of wool or canvas and the sudden change makes you wobble slightly. _What a place._ Tapestries and more artwork depicting Gorm and his wife is covering every wall rather than book cases or maps. Tall windows (as it turns out upon inspection) are hidden behind lengths of heavy curtains in mossy green and blood red velvet. But what draws your interest is the desk. Standing to one side of the room, it is neat enough for you to momentarily suspect that it never gets used despite the inkwell and beautiful quills arranged on a golden tray.

Thankfully, the drawers are a different matter.

Several correspondences are piled together, and as you leaf through them it becomes evident that they are from various chiefs, each reporting their failures and successes at the front. _Mainly failures,_ you note with a smirk tugging at you cheek. It appears Loki has been busy sabotaging anything he can. Only one place has there been actual fighting because the Midgardian forces reached a Jotun village, initially causing the inhabitants to flee after an uncoordinated attempt at defending themselves. Another message (written by someone else) references the same village, briefly summarizing heavy losses on the Midgardian side as the inhabitants had taken back their home with the aid of trained, armed forces.

A different pile of letters, all neatly folded and waiting to be sealed, speak of the measures king Gorm is planning to take in response and of course none of them bode well for the lowly soldiers in his armies. Blood boiling cold, you stare at tactics and numbers for expected losses (few, if any, are mentioned concerning the Jötun) which have been approved although nothing is won by the maneuvers.

It is tempting to destroy these orders, but you know it will only cause suspicion. Furthermore, words can be rewritten, and the delay will not be great enough. Grabbing a clean sheet and dipping a quill, you hastily jot down the main points in the messages with your wobbly handwriting, only bothering to make sure it is decipherable. As the ink dries, you return all else to the original places before continuing you investigation.

…

“Madama.” Röskva greets you with a sigh of relief as you step through the door to your chambers. “I was get worried. You gone long time.”

“Getting,” you correct her with a smile, “and thank you for your concern, but it’s fine.”

Handing her the note, you instruct her to send it to Loki. You have no doubt that she will although she insists on fussing first, making sure that you are safely in bed before leaving you to sleep. The sweet girl has become the closest thing to a friend, and you are helping each other improve your command over respectively the Midgardian and Vanir languages.

 _Wonder what she’d say to skipping a few steps?_ Yawning, you know you must be careful, or Loki will never be able to end Gorm’s life and you will never be able to return to your love. But why wait? Each day apart feels like a year and the time allotted to being with Loki is much too brief. It is with an aching heart that you fall asleep.


	15. XV - Impatient

There is only one way in and out of king Gorm’s bed chamber. Officially. The door is guarded constantly by the only competent soldiers in the entire nation. This may have something to do with the comfort of their lives as well as that of their families because no other commoners, not even the servants, live as luxuriously or eat such fine meals. True, it is still grubby compared to anyone of noble blood, but if someone is granted the position as royal bodyguard, then his or her daily struggle is over. This of course results in two things. One is the mixed envy and disdain for whomever holds such a job. The other is your need to find a way past the guards or an altogether different way into the chambers.

That is why you find yourself dangling halfway out of a narrow window, trying to get the tri-hook securely attached to the balcony above. A clank sounds through the clammy night air, indicating that the thing at least has struck something, and as it and the rope does not begin a rapid descend towards you then you dare to breathe out a sigh of relief (it is the seventh attempt or more). Carefully, you pull the rope towards you until suddenly it stops. _Carefully first._ It seems to hold a light strain, so you put more of your weight behind it. Then more, and more, and eventually you are hanging free from the window.

A hissing voice come from within. “You test it, now you get back here!” Röskva reaches out to you, swinging you gently back into safety. “This no way for madama to behave!”

The young girl is endearing in her fury and you cannot help laughing a bit. “Well, then I should be fine doing it, shouldn’t I?”

“Shush! You _want_ to be discovered?” Large, dark eyes have you pinned to the floor before she moves to look out of the window. Next moment she is back with a frown. “Now how you go get it back?”

“Relax, dear, that balcony is easily accessible from the corridor above which leads to the music room. No one would blame me for walking there.”

The girl is not quite convinced. “But at this hour?”

You manage to calm her down, but the Vanar is only satisfied once you are safely back in the guest chambers (rope and hook in hand).

What matters more. however, is that the little window with the balcony above is near identical to the layout by the king’s private sleeping quarters, so presuming you still know how to climb a rope there is now very little between you and a visit to Gorm. _But what about the queen?_ At least the two have no children to inherit the throne, but the lady strikes you as the kind of wife that could become vengeful even without any sign of foul play. _But I’m only going to have a look around._

Looking up from the array of lockpicks and other tools which you have been oiling, your eyes wander to the northern horizon. Somewhere out there is the one person who has managed to open your eyes and see the world for what it is. It was never you intention to let Loki have your heart, taking his in return, but here you are…and you will do anything in your power to keep him safe.

“Röskva?” There is a soft hum in response, and you continue in a broken attempt at Vanir. “(Jotun-king planning kill this king?)”

There is a rustle as the girl puts down the sewing she was working on, then the subdued sound of bare feet before she comes into view, taking a seat near the window. “(You know this.)”

“(He in danger if here.)”

“(Yes, madama.)” A deep frown is almost obscuring her eyes completely. “(What is it that you are plotting?)”

It is still harder to find the words than articulate the rolling R’s, but you plow on undeterred. “(Who become new ruler here?)”

“(There will be an –)“ she uses a word that carries little meaning to you until she explains it: election.

Of course, those eligible to vote would be the men of noble ancestry, but as for the candidates…they have to be approved by the heads of the dominant religions in Midgard, every commoner knows that the and priests, templars, and monks silently wants things to change for the better of the simple folk. Where else but to the gods have the people been able to turn to as things got worse for them? They have witnessed the suffering, tried to care for as many as possible while watching from first row how the court have gorged themselves.

“(Send my love word…he stay safe…I home soon.)”

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Glass shards dance across the stone floor, capturing and refracting the light from the afternoon sun into a myriad of tiny rainbows, but the beauty of destruction is lost on Loki as he stares at the message in his shaking hand. Clearly, it is not written by [Y/N]. He would know her clumsy letters or runes anywhere. No this is writing is careful and tight to minimize waste of space, each word chosen carefully to be as precise as possible without revealing too much. This is in itself by no means alarming, as most of the messages about her are written by someone else, but the last words…

   _I fear she will take your role._

As much as the king of Jotunheim had wished to be more closely involved, his part of the scheme is but a limited one despite the importance of it. The old him would have taken it as an offense if anyone, anyone at all, would consider taking over such a task regardless of their reasons for it because that Loki only would be blinded by a destructive notion of inadequacy and dismissal. But this Loki (the son of Frigga, Odin, and Laufey) king of Jotunheim feels none of that. Instead, it is a cold fear of another’s potential suffering that is making his world spin and hands shake. No coherent thoughts form in his mind, and once they appear, they are twisted into grotesque nightmares. _If she does and she is caught..._ the distress is causing the trembling hands to change hue. _They will imprison her._ A chill which not even the fire can overpower steals into the room. _Or maybe kill her on the spot._ Tendrils of ice spreads across the floor from where Loki stands, coiling around and up anything in their path, and the flames in the hearth shrink visibly. A knock on the door startles him.

“My king…Thor has arrived.” The servant sounds particularly timid.

 _What?!_ It takes a conscious effort to keep his voice level. “Show him to the throne room.”

Finally becoming aware of the surroundings, the king breathes deeply in an effort to shackle his emotions. As he watches skin return to a humane hue and the destruction fade, leaving small puddles on the floor, a thought so outlandishly rash it makes his chuckle occurs to him. And who better than to help carry out this approximation of a plan than Thor?

…

Striding into the hall, he finds Loki standing by the roaring fire. The red coat nearly reaches the floor but does nothing to hide the muscular arms folded across the brother’s broad chest wrapped in armour of gold inlaid silvery metal.

“Thor, what a delight to see you here!” The smile Loki has plastered on his face is not entire fake.

Electric blue eyes reflect the heat of the fire as they land upon Loki for a second before another voice answers. Kind, warm, and familiar. The brothers could go anywhere in any of the realms and still recognize Frigga through the noise of the rowdiest place even if she spoke in a whisper.

“My son, I need you to listen to me now more than ever.” Stepping into sight, she reaches out for the younger of her children. “We have received the same message as you. I know what you want to do.”

The king of Jotunheim stays rooted in place, watching her hands fall before speaking. “Oh, _really_?” It is futile to challenge her, because Loki is her son more than Odin’s, but he will not have anyone stand in his way. “And _what_ , pray tell, are my plans?”

“Brother, do not act foolishly,” Thor interjects, his voice a reminder of his powers, “if you go to stop lady [Y/N], then _you_ risk exposing her not to mention abandoning your kingdom to an uncertain fate. Is that what you want?”

Where Frigga’s words merely had annoyed Loki because he knows that she sees more than others (not like Heimdal does, of course), Thor’s words stokes a fire deep within. A flaming rage similar to the one that flared upon hearing the Midgardian’s crude insult in the tent less than a fortnight ago. And this time the Jotun is fully aware of the red that begins to fill his eyes, a sight that would make cowards of most (and does at least make Thor frown)…but Frigga steps forward to take the cold hands in her own.

“ _Please_ , listen to me. Let me show you what I have seen.”

After a nod, she drags him to a seat. He lets her place his palm on her forehead, even bends slightly so she can reach his, before in- and exhaling slowly to regain a semblance of calmness.

The dark hall around them falls away, leaving them in an emptiness of opportunities until he relents control to Frigga, and glimpses of unknown places appear with one common denominator: [Y/N]. _The first scene shows her slip behind a painting in the dead of night when only the stars light the castle’s interior. Next, she reappears in what appears to be a bathroom by pushing a panel in the pink and white wall aside, then tiptoeing across smooth stone which change to a fluffy carpet. She stops at a fourposter bed decorated with gold and pink lace, but he cannot see what happens there, only hear the spine-chilling sigh a few moments later. Then the scene changes and [Y/N] is dangling from a rope, a familiar stubborn expression on the upturned face. Next moment she stands on a balcony, knife in hand. Suddenly it is day, the court of nobles mingling about the familiar shape are at an uproar, but at least she appears safe._

“This is what _can_ be,” Frigga’s voice fills the void that has surrounded them, “it is to prefer over this…”

_Loki’s form is leaning over Magni’s neck, urging the horse on at a dangerous speed. He arrives at a castle without any attempt at disguising who he is, who he really is, and alarms sound everywhere causing guards to barge into a darkened bedroom styled in rich reds and greens where an unassuming man sits up in bed with a start and a familiar figure is caught sneaking in through a balcony door armed with a dagger. The next scene shows her too, in the same room and with the same soldiers and (Loki guesses) the king…but the only one alive is the Jotun despite the blood soaking his clothing and the many injuries he has sustained. Crimson eyes flare in the dark as he rocks the lifeless form of the woman he loves._

In reality, it is not Loki who is rocking, but he who is being rocked. Frigga is holding her son almost like she did when he was young and upset, and of course Loki realises this in much the same way that he is highly aware that Thor is watching, or that he _has_ to keep the Jotun powers in check to avoid the risk of hurting either of the Asgardians.

Breathing deeply, the hard clench of his fists steadies him. “None of those futures are certain.” He knows a bit of how Frigga’s gift works.

“That is true.” But the sadness in her eyes is not subdued when their eyes meet.

“I assume you have conferred with Heimdal.”

It is Thor who answers, relenting the information that the Watcher has seen nothing alarming at Sjöblik as of yet. The tone is clear, tough. Both he and Frigga are trying to get Loki to stay put, inferring that he will be to blame for any ill events that may happen. _If [Y/N] is harmed because of me…_ the risk alone is to great, and the dread it brings is strong enough that for once the Jotun is permeated by a cold as intense as the winters in these lands. It threatens to paralyze him, suffocate him in his own apathy. Never before has Loki felt this powerless, and he hates it with a passion almost comparable to the intensity of his love for the one person he is being asked to abandon to fate.

“There must be somethi–“ he begins desperately before being interrupted.

“Not now.” Frigga shushes.

A heavy hand lands on Loki’s shoulder. “Do not worry, little brother. You have trained this maiden of your well! I think she may yet surprise us pleasantly.”

…

Unsurprisingly, Frigga has had the foresight not to leave her son alone in Utgard, and as a result, Thor has been having a blast challenging anyone to spar until Loki relents. Now they are circling each other in the snowy courtyard while almost every Jötun in the keep watches from the sidelines. Mjölnir is standing neatly in a corner as per usual when the brothers brawl simply to minimize the risk of collateral damage (though it obviously does not eliminate it), and Thor is using a mighty sword in its stead.

They know each other well, rarely falling for the feinting jabs or swings. In truth, neither of them expect to win a match like this by means of weapons and crude violence although each participant is more than capable of slaying the strongest of foes if it were a real battle. Loki has never favoured brawn, always being reminded of his lesser size by his father and anyone else not fond of the dark-haired child. And Thor? He has the strength and he may not be as bookishly intelligent as Loki, but the God of Thunder is far from stupid, especially when it comes to tactics.

The first real move comes in a powerful sweep with the sword, developing out of a seemingly harmless jab, and Loki has to flatten his back onto the compacted snow as the blade hums through the air inches above his nose.

“Ah! Close one, brother!” Thor has been pulled around by the momentum, leaving the master of the keep time to regain both footing and breath. “This is a fine weapon!”

Loki sends a handful of throwing blades towards the blond’s unprotected back. “It is traditional for the Jötun clans of the northern plains.”

Each slim knife is deflected by either vambraces or the weapon in question, making Thor grin proudly. _Keep laughing, brother mine._ Behind the Asgardian, the snow transform into ice while collapsing in on itself, readying to launch a crystalline missile towards the unsuspecting fighter. _Not yet._ Rolling to avoid a new stroke, Loki reaches the rack with weapons available throughout the sparring session and grabs his favourite longer ranged weapon: a smooth spear of dark wood with silver and gold threads inlaid along the shaft. The tip is nearly black with the exception of the same threads weaving in and out of each other.

“I was wondering if you would keep relying on your toothpicks.” Blue eyes shine with mirth, teeth gleam like snow in sunlight.

A few jabs and a sweeping arch for Thor’s feet has the guest positioned perfectly for the surprise hidden in the snow. “Not at all,” Loki smirks, “I just deemed it polite to let you stand a chance.”

Clenching a fist suddenly, the sorcerer fires the icy missile. As if in slow motion, he sees it burst from the snow with deadly precision and it would have hit true if Thor had not had the wits to throw himself awkwardly to the side, now it merely grazes the warrior, sending him spinning into the heaps of snow. By the time his face reappears, it is met with the gleaming tip of a spear less than an inch from the nose.

“Loki…one,” the champion smiles.

Thor smiles undeterred, eager to continue the game as though he were a puppy. “Thor nil. Smart fighting.”

…   READER’s PoV   …

“What d’you _mean_ they _dis’peared_?!”

King Gorm’s rage is echoing through the halls, causing the servants to scurry on with their heads down and the nobles present to attempt carrying on with their conversations although with slightly shrill voices. Standing by a tall window of stained-glass mosaics, the distress makes you smile despite the fat drop of rain that have been falling nonstop the last couple of days.

An answer is given and appears to be unsatisfactory. “NO! I’ll no’ ‘ _ave_ it,” the monarch nearly screams, “don’t you come spurtin’ tha’ kinda nonsense! I ‘spect nuttin’ less than p’fection! I want them _punished!_ ALL o’ them!”

“But my lord,” finally the distressed voice of the military advice can be heard, “the few that did return, dutifully and with proo–“

“ALL o’ them! You think I dunno see wha’ ‘tis? Huh?! Lettin’ their _mates_ wander off like tha’?!”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with pettiness or the shill of the damp air. Whatever has happened (probably a regiment opting to desert) will now cause innocent souls suffering simply because the king acts like a spoiled child. _Someone should send him to the front. Have him live under the same conditions as the lowliest soldier._ It is a futile wish, of course. No one here will suggest anything that can cost them their own safety. _Maybe they just don’t care about others?_


	16. XVI - In the Dark of the Night

The columns loom above you, stretching towards a grey sky as they hold up a triangular façade decorated with scenes of the miracles attributed to that faith. It is not the religion that was practiced in the village you grew up. There, the focus was on a more practical faith in the sense that prayers were sent to any deity willing to grant a good harvest or protect the miners from accidents and so forth. This temple, in which darkness is shattered by candles and colourful fabrics, is a place for big miracles which explains the steady stream of people coming and going. You recognize the tired expression on their faces, the desperate hunger in their eyes. It is not the first place you visit, and each holy sight held the same subdued sadness. _Hopelessness._  

“Lady [Y/N],” someone addresses you softly, “what brings you here?”

Apparently, your reputation precedes you. It is a temple priest, wrapped in the faded blue signaling his position within the order. The skin is lined as a result of caring for too many too long, and the hair on the part of his skull that has not been shaven is greying, making you think of plants withering in dead soil – too stubborn to die, yet malnourished. Most importantly, however, is the kindness radiating from him as if it could heat the air and it is welcoming anyone wishing to approach him like you do know.

Röskva is trailing behind you, keeping an appropriate distance to maintain the roles of handmaid and mistress, but you know she is listening in on every word. Why should she not? No one in Midgard knows that she speaks their language and no conversation will remain a secret to her.

“Father…” You hesitate, feigning uncertainty in how to address the man, and he nods in approval. “What would a visit to a foreign culture be if the guest did not learn of every aspect.” Again, a slight nod urges you on. “The holy houses of my homeland are of importance to us…yet I dare say not even the biggest temples see such a traffic as this.”

Sighing heavily, the father beckons you to follow. “Our people is…despite what you may hear at the palace…” as if tasting the words carefully before spitting them out, he chews on his tongue and lips for a moment, before starting over, “The people suffers. War brings losses and casualty, that’s the nature of strife…but as other problems are added and there’s no relief…where else can they turn to than the gods?”

“Hope, guidance and solidarity is food for the soul.” _Take the hint._

He scans the corner of the temple aula where he has brought you. “What we need’s _real_ food though. Clothes. Medicine to treat the illnesses that come with deprivation and poverty.” A fear flickers in his gentle eyes. “This war’s _claimed_ to be for the people…the _people_ win nothing, and the enemy’s _false_!”

“So…it is as I feared…” You do not have to act sad although it is a struggle to hide the victorious feeling surging through in the veins at the priest’s words. “If only someone could restore peace and care for the people…”

Leaning in conspiratorially, there is no hope in his face. “Several people have been deemed fit for the latter…the problem lies in the former part of the challenge.”

…

The tiny bottle gleams in the candlelight, the liquid within seemingly absorbing any light passing thorough the tinted glass which makes it appear like the Void itself. You have to handle it with care, never once removing the thin leather gloves that have been treated with wax. _Just a few drops._ The contents could kill everyone in the palace if mixed into the wine, but no…such a tactic is too risky because sometimes the servants enjoy a sip in secrecy. Thankfully, there are safer ways.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

A new snowstorm rages, keeping the brothers inside the sheltering walls of Utgard. While Thor is enjoying the steamy bath facility and mulled, joking with all the servants, Loki has retreated to a painfully familiar room. This far from the kitchens, the keep is quiet. No voices or (because of the Asgardian brother) warbled singing is chasing away the winds’ howling or the echoes of memories, conversations spoken when the mood was bolder.

There is an uneasiness that has taken root in Loki’s heart the last hours, a restless worry that distracts his actions and guides every thought to the south where he knows he cannot go. Hands fold and unfold the grey shawl that used to hold the soothing scent of his little mortal but now smells of nothing else than wool. Maybe a bit of pine needles. Looking to the dresser, he sees that new twigs have been placed in a jug of water without his command – the servants have found their own ways of honouring [Y/N]’s memory and one of them is to not abandon the room although it is out of use. _This will not be her chambers when she returns._ When. It is a small word that somehow has become incredibly powerful, causing Loki to cling to it because it is the only bastion against the dreaded “if”.

…   READER’s PoV   …

It has taken some planning and sweettalking to arrange for _all_ of the Vanir in your company to be occupied elsewhere tonight. None of them are without at least three Midgardian witnesses. Although Röskva was visibly distressed at the knowledge of _why_ it is necessary, she still went peacefully with a few of the maids under the pretence of teaching them how you want your meal the next day. Likewise, the men have gone to train in the barracks where it is certain that plenty of the castle’s soldiers will see them.

In other words: you are on your own.

Black clothing, soft leather shoes, the belt with tools of your new trade. All of it is fitting snuggly, giving you a sense of comfort as you sneak through the empty paths within the castle walls. Up and up you go, the directions memorized and tested several times to minimize the risk of mistakes, the time it takes to get from one place to the other…and to ensure you know how to hide from any possible pursuers. Crouching behind the shift in the wall, you fight down an eager to hurry. _Take the time needed…wait for the snoring._

By the time you slip out from behind the pink and white panel to land silently on the marble floor, it once again makes sense to you why the king and queen of Midgard sleep in separate chambers: that woman is noisier than a rockslide! Still, the racket she produces now is nothing compared to her shrieks when she found out the servants took the discarded food and distributed it among the poor on their way home. Apparently, the queen would have preferred the waste to be burned or left to rot while the rats gorged themselves rather than see the hungry fed in the dead of the winter. The thought alone makes your fingers itch and shake with anger as you slip on the gloves.

The hinges on the door are perfectly oiled, granting you a silent entry to the bedroom where a single oil lamp is turned down low under the mother-of-pearl cap, illuminating the canopy. A cocoon of silk obscuring the target until you pull it aside slowly, carefully. And there lies the queen in her “peaceful” slumber. _Ha! There lies the wicked witch…_ but even that analogy does little to steel your nerves as you pull out the vial and twist the cork out with shaking hands.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

None of the food or drinks are tasteful to the host although Thor thoroughly is enjoying the feast. One would think that being a prince, raised in the Asgardian court, would provide a strict set of table manners…in fact Loki knows that it is not for the lack of Frigga’s patience that the older brother still eats as though he has starved for days. Normally it would bother the Jotun king immensely. Not tonight.

 _I should have left right away._ Of course, the winter weather is not a deterrent for a Jotun, but it is for a mount. Traversing half the country (or what feels like it) on foot will take longer than waiting for the storm to pass and then ride. _If only Heimdal –_ angrily pushing the thought aside, Loki drains his glass while considering half-heartedly what curses to cast upon the Keeper of the Bridge, his brother, his mother, anyone who has a hand in creating the distance between him and [Y/N].

Who would have thought that a simple mortal could gain such power over him? Hundreds of years have passed where he answered to no one and nothing but his own (sometimes questionable) conscience, where he did as he pleased without concern for the days to come. Much of that had already changed when Loki learned the truth of his origins, causing him to seek revenge on slights be they imagined or real, but that too is naught but a shadow compared to the responsibility and the connection he feels with this unassuming woman. The love and joy she has brought him is far too precious to lose.

 _Love is a wicked gam_ e. And still…Loki never plays a game that he does not intent to win.

…   READER’s PoV   …

The rattling sigh is still echoing in your ears as a ghost’s clamouring accusation when you reach a narrow window at the end of a darkened passage. The air is cold and crisp, caressing your face as you lean out to spot the balcony above that has been reduced to a black silhouette against a starry sky. _Like icy crystals._ For a few seconds, it is possible to imagine that you are watching the winter night from a different window, and it calms your thumping heart a fraction.

Rough rope skitters through your gloved hand. Upwards in a steep arch until the distant clink sounds, causing you to freeze with the stomach in a knot and pricking in down the back of the legs from fear that someone will have heard and come running. But nothing happens, and the delicate task of securing a grip with the tri-hook can commence.

It takes far too long, it seems, before you swing your legs over the balcony railing and allow yourself to lie flat on the cold stones. Sweat cools on contact, sending shivers through your leaden limbs. Or is the shaking from the exertion? It hardly matters right now, and either way it is a blessed distraction as your mind has somewhat quieted while you were dangling over an impenetrable darkness. Down below is the moat, dug to allow the nearby lake’s waters run around the castle’s perimeter as an extra fortification, but the water may as well have been a world away, invisible and only present in the mind.

A sigh whispers by your years. _Just the wind, nothing else._ It is time to focus on the task at hand and you push yourself onto your weak knees and from there to your feet although in a crouch. The metal of slender lockpicks tick against each other as you set to work, and a surge of pride warms you moments later when the lock clicks, allowing your access to king Gorm’s private chambers.

Hidden between the drapes, you take in the surroundings for the first time and are pleased to see how accurate the servants’ descriptions have been. A wardrobe with painted carvings and bigger than any single piece of furniture you have ever seen, the chaise lounge full of fluffy pillows all of which is standing next to an actual glass table with golden legs! And that is not even the half of it…but by then your eyes are glued to the shape partially visible through the velvet canopy’s crooked drapes. Already the little vial with the dark poison is resting in your palm.

There is no raging battle in your heart this time. Maybe there should be. Perhaps you have grown evil, becoming one of these individuals that you have taken upon yourself to rid the world of and shying no means to reach whichever goal you deem appropriate. _This isn’t for my sake._ It is a weak argument and you know it. Standing here is a direct result of the life you have lived and the sufferings you have seen. Of course, you could have decided to remain safe and sound in Utgard while pretending all is good…but then you would have had to live with a lie and a burdened conscience. _If I was still here, I’d want someone to save us from the tyrant._ So is that it? Are you a saviour? Frustrated, you push the thoughts away. _I’m pass the point of no return._ Instead you call forth the hard memories of losses and pain, of hunger and suffering, of the carelessness with which Gorm and his noble fellows spend the lives of the people as if they are cattle for slaughter. And now there is no doubt. Stowing the tiny bottle in its padded pouch, your fingers curl around the handle of the long, slender knife. Dying in his sleep is far too kind for the man sleeping in the bed across the room.

The soft padding of feet is swallowed by a plush carpet. No reaction to the rustle of the curtains can be seen or heard as you study the king’s face with its content little smile and the speckle of drool at the corner of the mouth.

A leather-gloved hand clamps over his mouth the second you plunge the blade in between his ribs. Startled, bloodshot eyes meet yours. The exact moment realization hits the king is obvious, and now the little smile is on your lips, your face hot with rage and pride.

“Before you die,” you whisper to his face, causing him to pause his struggles at the difference in your voice, “know that I once fought _for_ you – now I know better.”


	17. XVII - Passing on

The fire has been reduced to embers, pulsating in a rhythm hinting at the ever-present force slumbering below the silken ashes. For once, Loki feels a semblance between that constant destruction waiting to lash out and himself. Pacing with long strides, he is aware of a foreign heat in the depth of his spirit. It could be uncontrollable. Devastating. It is a far cry from the cold, distanced loathing that has fueled any vengeful action in the past. The freezing anger that has provided clarity because it is an element he is, so to say, familiar with unlike the burning that now reigns.

It frightens him.

Loki once promised himself never to be controlled or influenced by anyone else. Being the master of his own life had become the primary necessity in his existence…and yet this woman has taken over his thoughts and dreams little by little until the influence she has over him is complete. _Does she even realize?_ [Y/N] has proclaimed her love for the one that has held her captive. Yes. But does she know the extent of her power? Without her…

Stopping to glare at the fire, Loki tries once more to escape the spiraling free-fall of his mind only to fail. Misery, fear, loneliness, anger…all of it is drowning him despite the one constant consolation: her love. Turning on his heel, he stalks from the throne room into the courtyard that is obscured by the blizzard, trusting his limbs to carry him to the destination.

Moments later, the Jotun stands in Magni’s box with his face pressed against the horse’s strong neck like he has seen [Y/N] do so often.

…   READER’s PoV   …

A colourful string of curses in several languages (thanks to the Jötun and Röskva) presses against your lips as you consider the conundrum, eyes fixed on the tri-hook. Of course, no one in their right mind will believe that the king has died of natural causes anymore (there is not much natural about a stab wound to the chest), but somehow it had eluded you to even worry about obscuring your route in and out of the chambers…until now. The gloves are shrivelling in the gilded metal fireplace. The dagger is wiped clean. The balcony door has been carefully locked once more. But a rope leading to a window in a passage system used by the servants is bound to bring the suspicion upon them. _That might happen anyways judging by the court’s standards._ That is a thought you actively have avoided addressing because there will be only one option then.

A creaking nearly stops your heart. _The king!!_ There is no doubt that he is dead and never will return to hurt anyone, so you manage to reject the first instinct as you swivel around to watch for movement within the chambers. _Has someone found him already?_ The sound repeats, drawing your attention to a part of the railing covered in shadows from the gargoyles above. You watch intently until the darkness there moves revealing a large raven.

“Hi,” you whisper, “don’t let them know I’m here.” _Why am I talking to a bird? Why’s it even around at this time?_

Naturally, the creature does not answer but merely cocks its head to watch with intelligent eyes. Hoping the bird will remain quiet, you return to the problem at hand. The walls are too slippery to climb down without the rope to help (that is why you had gotten it in the first place). To your knowledge and as far as you can see in the dark when leaning over the railing, there is no place to attach the hook further below while still hoping it would hold a free swing – a swing that would grant you a very intense encounter with the stone surface or a too rapid descend into the moat below. _How deep is the moat?_ Not deep enough when taken the distance into account.

“Crrrrrrrraawwwk?” The large bird bounces closer to you along the railing, seemingly interested in the gleaming metal of the hook.

“Pretty, huh?” It bobs either in response or in contemplation. “You can have it when I’m done with it. Not yet.”

Beady eyes focus on you. _Actually…that might work._ With any luck, then the raven is curious and as fascinated by shiny objects as its smaller cousin, the crow, and either way there is nothing you can do now to change the situation and you join the bird on the railing, feet dangling above the dark precipice. _Here goes nothing._

…

Perching on the windowsill, you feel the ache in the fingers as they claw onto any edges capable of supporting your balance. The rope is still attached above and so you have managed to loop it around a wrist as a sort of safety precaution which is needed because short of being discovered, the problem you are facing now is about the worst one imaginable and it brings you to the verge of teary-eyed frustration as you rest your sweat-sticky forehead against the cool glass.

Here is the problem: upon leaving the secret passage and swinging out into the free, you had left the window open, hoping no one would walk by (although you _did_ pull the rope up after you onto the balcony) which apparently is a wish that has not been granted because not only is the window pulled tightly shut, oh no, you can see the latch securely fastened in the dim star light seeping though the thick glass.

“Crrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaawwwwrrr?”

The raven has eagerly been following you on the way down, fluttering around you or perching either on the windowsill (until you arrived and chased it off) or, as now, on a nearby protrusion which could have housed a gargoyle in the past.

“What?” You freeze in fear upon hearing your clear voice in the darkness, but minutes pass by and only your stalker seems to have heard. “Yeah…well…” hissing, you glare into the darkness where you know it is, “caw all you want. I’m not dead yet, so you gotta wait.”

 _Yet._ Unless you manage to open the window then that is just a matter of time. Every limb is shaking at the exertion from climbing that damned rope and now pretending to be a spider and stick to anything vertical…it is not exactly comforting. You need to get in. Fast.

It requires a bit of repositioning before you can free the rope-less hand to pull the dagger out and insert it in the crack between window and frame. Insert it might be too grand a term to use as only the very tip can be squeezed in.

It would have been more satisfactory to scream from the top of you lungs, but you can only get away with an inhaled curse. “Donkey’s balls!”

“Awrrrrrk.”

“Watch it or I’ll use you to break the window.” With an indignant flutter the bird takes up a new place back on the balcony railing but keeps watching you with interest. “Yeah…” you mutter annoyed, “you know I don’t mean that.”

Flipping the knife and bracing yourself, it will take all the gods’ good graces to break through the thick glass and not be heard. _Here goes nothing._

You feel it happening before the knife is even brought in position to attempt smashing the glass. Sweaty fingers begin to slip on the cold, wet stone above your head and you jerk your body in the hopes that you can regain leverage, but it only makes matters worse. _Oh._ The foothold crumbles beneath your toes, dragging your weight into the darkness below together with the flakes of stone that have decided to break free and you fall.

_Twwwwnnng!_

A fine mist lands on your head and arms as the rope is stretched in an instant, stopping the descend abruptly. Sharp pain lashes through your shoulder. _Later._ Each movement is agony as you try to get a grip on the rope coiled around your wrist and you know that you have a dislocation to worry about as soon as you get your feet back on solid ground. Rough fibers scrape against your thumb, then the palm and the fingers close around the rope as if on their own, allowing a wave of gratitude or victoriousness surges through you, lasting all of a second before you feel the vibration traveling along the rope accompanied by the cold scrape of metal upon stone.

 _No._ Cold wind rushes past you, tearing at your shirt and hair. It is as if every organ has been plucked from your body and are still suspended in the air by the closed window while you can only see the few markers in the dark grow smaller above you. Further above you. Then all is darkness.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Perhaps the Midgardian has a point after all when she claims being around simpler creatures brings a calmness to a turbulent soul. Loki finds it hard to imagine peace of mind emanating from sheep or poultry (unless lack of intelligence is the only requirement), but as he sits in the hay with his back against Magni’s warm flank, listening to the heavy rhythm of the heart, that same slow pace echoes within himself. The god still worries. His soul cries in agony at the fears of what might go wrong. But somehow it has become distant, muted to a point where he can ignore it almost in the same way as the howling from the snowstorm.

 _What can I do?_ Calmly working through the options, Loki eventually pieces together a semblance of a plan. As soon as the storm allows, he will return to Valhalla with Thor to speak with both their mother as well as Heimdall, the Keeper of Bifrost, to hear of any developments because the Jotun finds that he _needs_ to know how his mortal fares. Then he will begin preparations to travel to Midgard: someone to care for the Jötun realm in his absence, a disguise (which is easily sorted) and excuse to travel south as a stranger in a foreign land.

Much of the work for the journey can be initiated now, thankfully, while other elements require careful thought. Leaving the warm comfort of the stables behind, Loki heads back to the keep proper. The wind tugs at his black hair. Who would be a fitting vice-ruler? An almost humanoid scream created by the storm is suddenly the only thing he can hear before his heart and lungs are ripped from his body, plunging him into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shit hath hitteth the fan...


	18. XIIX - Among Wolves

The dull headache is one thing, but Loki’s limbs area heavy and unwilling to respond as he attempts to turn around in his bed. Or maybe the covers have gotten twisted, effectively restraining him? Some…thought…or maybe a memory is starting to squirm at the back of his mind, but it will have to wait. Groaning, he blinks to clear his eyes and investigate the situation.

“Brother?” There is a distance to Thor’s voice which throws the Jotun for a spin. “Loki, remain calm…alright brother?”

 _Calm? I am calm._ The cerebral brain remains the same, but the vision clears which seems to fuel the insistent thought that urges him to move, to hurry. _Why should I not be calm?_ He lost something, did he not? Getting his bearings, it occurs to Loki that this is not his own bed. There are no furs or silken sheets nestled within a wooden structure, but crisp white linen and a golden frame. Over the covers stretches thick, leather bands emblazoned with runes to imbue them with magic…magic meant to hold him in place if the physical bindings should fail.

There is no reason to struggle as it would only be in vain. “Thor…what is the meaning of this?”

“I am sorry,” the brother apologizes sheepishly from the other side of a magical barrier, “we did not know what else to do.”

Seconds pass silently while the brothers study each other. _Why?_ Wreaking his memories, Loki can only recall walking from the stables with a plan in mind. _What was I plotting?_ When the memory hits in the shape of the elusive thought, it takes away his breath along with any coherent thoughts…and still he cannot move. _I have to get to Sjöblik in time to stop [Y/N]._

“You have to release me,” he forces himself to talk evenly, “I need to get to her.”

“I cannot release you.”

Snarling, Loki is close to screaming at his brother. “Then _get me_ someone who _CAN_!”

The broad bindings glow angrily until the captive relents with a sigh and relaxes into the soft mattress. Gaze fixed on the ceiling, he can hear the heavy footsteps of Thor recede followed by the distant clank of a door.

…

By the time Loki hears the door again, he has counted everything there is to count, read the runes about a dozen times, and designed his vengeance down to the smallest detail. _They will regret holding me back like this._ It is true that he had allowed himself to be talked into staying in Utgard from fear that any rash action would cause more damage. But preventing him from executing a carefully laid plan? Unforgivable. _How did Thor even know?_

Several people move in his periphery, safely on the other side of the magical wall, tempting him to turn his head. Thor, the lumbering oaf, has brought their parents. In a way it makes sense because Odin would have implemented strict rules to keep the embarrassing situation from the public, but seeing Frigga standing there with worry on her face and her hands clasped so tight before her chest that the knuckles are white… _I am sorry, mother._

“Loki, I am sorry you had to regain consciousness to this…we did not know what else to do.”

The strain in Odin’s voice surprises his adoptive son, but he maintains a cool detachment. “May I suggest you begin with explaining why I was unconscious in the first place?”

“Your servants and I found you like that,” Thor’s begins, “we heard a…well I truly have no words to describe it! It was like a mixture of an explosion and a thousand people screaming. It came from the courtyard and when we arrived…I admit I was not the first, but…oh, brother! _Everything_ was covered in ice. Dark, frozen spikes and-and _shockwaves_ centered upon _you_ as if…as if some force had hit you with the cold of a _million_ winters, freezing anything in a circle around you!” The breath inhaled into the Thunder god’s lungs shakes with emotion. “No one could tell me what to do, so I called upon Heimdal…to take us here.”

 _My idiot brother is incapable of lying._ Eliminating the most convoluted options, Loki is left with the assumption that the story is true. “So why subdue me like this?”

Frigga places a soft hand on the wall, causing the barrier to disintegrate and allowing her to step through to the weak protests of the men beside her. “My dear. We first feared you had been the victim of some form of attack, but as we searched for injuries you might have sustained, we found none.” Finally by the bed, she takes a seat on the edge, running the back of a few warm finger over Loki’s cheek. “You began to stir in your unconsciousness, showed distress…the infirmary became covered in ice too…”

“I caused it to happen…”

Turning his attention inwards, the god focuses on the part of his soul that is connected to the old powers of the Jötun, finding the Living Cold to be nearly depleted – something that only can happen by rapidly unleashing magic of enormous proportions. Already, it is replenishing, but there is no doubt it will take weeks before the powers will be restored.

“But why?” Soft grey eyes meet his blood-red with all the comfort and wisdom of a mother. “I…did something…? I felt…” _Oh._ “It felt as though my heart was torn from my body. Then I fell into darkness…”

“Loki, my dear.” Frigga sighs, looking to her husband and Thor for something. “Your bond with the mortal may be stronger than you think.”

…   READER’s PoV   …

 _If this is death…then why am I in pain?_ What first coherent thoughts go, it is not the worst, actually. It feels as though your shoulder is burning and moving your arm is like having white-hot pokers boring through. Deciding to stay as still as possible, you look around in the grey light of dawn, surprised to find yourself nowhere near the castle in Sjöblik…or for that matter near the city itself, it seems.

Dense firs and pines are standing so close that the needle-covered ground is almost completely dry beneath you, and it would not be a lie to say that at least one side of your body is being warmed considerably. Turning your head carefully to avoid upsetting the shoulder, the change of perspective brings a wall of mottled-grey fur into focus. Fur that moves as if it is still in use by its original owner. Breathing in sharply in fear fills your nose with the scent of dirt, dried and fresh needles…and a dog-like smell. Sweeping the gaze against the hairs, it passes the shoulders of a canine before coming to rest on the face of a wolf. Dark, amber eyes are watching every move you make.

You can feel your mind blank out, loosing touch with logic and abandoning any predetermined reactions that normal people might have in such a situation (though it probably is very few who haven woken up next to a wolf). _Wolf._ So far, not a wrong conclusion by your brain. _Big._ Also correct. _Very, very big._ Again, correct…but not helpful as such. _Is Röskva and the other Vanir alright?_ See, that is where your brain fails to grasp the concept of prioritizing.

A quiet huff from the side that should not have a wolf assigned, makes you suspect that there is, in fact, another huge predator as if one would not have been bad enough. _I survive falling several stories into a moat in the dead of winter…only to be rescued by the biggest wolves in creation?_

“By the gods…this is just great.”

Talking out loud in this situation is another piece of evidence that your head must be damage somehow. Still, neither creature appears startled or upset about your comment, and you decide to risk a bit movement. Inch by inch, the good arm and hand begins a journey across the body until the fingertips can prod the injured shoulder, soliciting a hiss of discomfort. It also results in a soft whine from the wolf lying by your side, and an exploratory sniff by the newcomer (a wolf so dark brown it might have been black) which has taken a seat by your head. _If I get to survive sitting up, then I need a way to fixate that arm or pop the joint back in place._ Neither option is going to be easy, but at least you have a belt.

Repositioning the good arm, you brace yourself. _Can’t lie here forever._ With a grunt and a half-choked curse, it is possible to sit up although black dots are dancing before your eyes and it feels as though your arm has been torn off. The swaying motion steadies, making it possible to breathe a bit deeper. Then a gently yet very firm form presses against your back, nudging you to keep going. To stand. Afraid to piss off a wolf by refusing to do as it wants, you tug a leg under you the best you can, pulling the knee on the other to your chest. All the movement is making your entire body ache, but it is nothing compared to the agony of the dislocated shoulder.

A new nudge.

“Yes, yes…just give me a moment, huh? This isn’t as easy as it looks.” Hot breath fans your cheek, starting a shiver that run the length of your spine before it is stopped by a wet lick ending with a lot of wolf-drool in your ear. “Ah great, that’s really gonna help.”

As if understanding your words, the grey wolf wiggles itself underneath the good arm and then looks at you. Carefully you dig your shaking fingers through the course layer of the fur until you reach the soft undercoat. _I’m being helped by wolves…yes…completely normal._ But you nod to the creature, feeling it enhance your efforts to stand by pulling you forward before staying stock still as a means of maintaining balance.

“Well, uhm…thank you.”

…

Your first priority after strapping the arm to your chest had been to find water to clench an aching thirst but the wolves had other plans. Deciding it was better not to object to the wishes of creatures as big as ponies, you let them lead you away. North,  judging by the mosses and lichen growing on any available surface.

A swarm of thoughts is milling in your mind, each concern fighting for attention with no regard for progress on the previous’ behalf. By now, the murder of king Gorm and the queen must have been discovered which means that when the guards or court realizes that you are missing, they will blame it on you and subsequently the Vanir – people you have come to consider as friends and who now may be arrested and convicted for your actions. _That was a risk all along._ Knowing that does not make it easier. If only you had had time to warn them, to send them away.

Stumbling over a root, you reflexively reach for the nearest support. Fingers dig into rough fur, causing both you and the dark wolf to freeze. _Don’t eat me._ The air starts to hurt in your chest as you wait for something to happen while amber eyes roam your shape with an intelligence unmatched by most beasts. There is even something familiar about it…but what? The new ruminations are interrupted as the greyer of the giant creatures lays down before you, presenting its exposed back. _Huh?_ As you try to sidestep, a deep rumbling erupts, causing every hair on your body to stand and silencing the few birds in the area.

“What do you want?”

It was not meant to sound as whiney as it came out, but you are still tired and hurting, and things generally stink which makes it hard to deal with the whims of abducting predators. Probably for that very reason, it takes several nudges and renewed growls before the trip can continue…with you on the back of one of them.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Left in solitude for a while, the king of Jotunheim is no further from desperation than before although everything has been explained to him. _She fell._ The nauseating sensation he felt while crossing Utgard’s courtyard must have been related to this, but Frigga cannot give any satisfying explanation why it is happening. To find out, [Y/N] must be present too.

That leads Loki’s thought to the next issue. Having had to retreat as a child to save his own hide, the trickster knows that speed is vital unless the blame can be shifted to someone else. The Vanir are making haste on horseback heading southward to prevent getting caught, which is a sensible solution all things considered, whereas the mortal guilty of the crime committed is on food, has no rations, carries no weapons, and only has support from Odin’s two wolves.

 _Geri and Freki._ Perhaps it should be a consolation that they are with her as the beasts are more than capable of defending their charge from any dangers…but it is not enough. The animals had pulled her from the river that has been split to create the moat surrounding the castle in Sjöblik. Once safe on land, each wolf is most likely taken turn to warm and dry [Y/N] with their own body heat until she is able to leave the forest at its northern borders. _But when?_ The old forests cover vast areas and are too dense for Heimdal to land the Bifrost safely. That is why they must wait for the odd trio to emerge from the woods.

No, the arrangements that have been made are the best possible under these circumstances, and Loki’s frustrations stem from the uselessness he feels. Waiting will be a challenge although it is something he always has excelled at.

…   READER’s PoV   …

“Crrrrrooooooaaaarrrr.”

The unexpected familiarity of the sound is enough to pull you from the edges of sleep and back to the moment at hand. Jerking upright sends a new flare of pain through your shoulder but also grants you the view of the dark wolf and an even darker creature now perched on its back. To make matters worse (or odder) the raven is holding on to something shiny with its claws. _The tri-hook._ Only a foot of the rope is still attached, torn and frayed at the end.

“Still not dead, sorry,” you manage to whisper through dried lips.

 _That doesn’t rule out that I’m going crazy._ A bird has flown miles to bring a tool you had hated leaving behind, and you are riding on a wolf as big as the one in Odin’s cou–

Blinking at the mottled-grey creature, you finally recognize it and its brother for what they are. Loki had told you their names and how they, together with two ravens are the eyes and ears of the All-Father as he sends them out into the realms…or apparently to watch over stupid mortals as they take on risky missions. Your cheeks are hot with guilt as they stretch in a tired smile.

 _What are their names again?_ “Thank you. All of you.”

Relief is coursing through your tired and beaten body, making your head swim so you discover belatedly that the odd company has stopped. Looking around, you notice the forest itself is behind you. Before the wolves’ paws begins the open the plains of rolling hills and the occasional village of farmer-families. You even have time to admire the view of the first blue patches of sky in weeks before a torrent of light engulfs you.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

They have let him out and Loki knows just from the smiles on Thor’s and Frigga’s faces what it means which is why he is wasting no time as he hurries along familiar halls with them in sharp pursuit.

Each minute feels like a year. Each step has been reduced to a thumb’s length.

But _finally_ , he skids through the circular opening of Heimdal’s observatory in time to see an odd group of figures materialize before the Keeper and Odin.

The mortal woman is dirty and battered with an arm strapped awkwardly across the chest, each injury echoing through Loki’s limbs, but in this moment, she is an enchanting being taken directly from the sweetest dreams he has ever had. How perfectly she fits in his arm as he lifts her off her tired feet and cradles her in his lap without a care in the world that he has somehow sunk to the floor before the eyes of his family, Heimdal, and a few other guards. _None of it matters._ None of it matters because [Y/N] is near him again.

Loki refuses to let go of the frail human, insisting instead to carry her to the Healers’ Ward where Idunn tends to the injuries with skill. Only when the Asgardian goddess of longevity and health orders him to leave, to grant the mortal rest, does he do so…though with the promise of returning soon.

Outside the door, Frigga is waiting on a carved stone bench with a book in one hand. “I assume you have been told to give your love some peace to sleep?” she asks with a gentle smile.

“Yes.”

“My son…you always consider each action carefully…” Gone is the smile, replaced by the tender worry of a mother. “You know you will outlive her. Does she?”

“There is one way…but how can I ask her to abandon everything? She has a chance to return to Midgard and build a normal life. A safe life.”

The soft hand that takes Loki’s says more than any words can, and he enjoys the silent that lowers itself over them. This hallway is favoured with soft, warm colours enhancing the healing qualities of the sun streaming through the windows. A multitude of plants adds to the impression that it is indeed the _Healing_ Ward which is housed here. Blindly staring at the rose and creamy yellows of the marble, Loki wishes it was this life he could grant [Y/N] rather than that of a cold keep and Jötun clans still opposing his rule.

“If you truly want her to chose, then you cannot hide anything from her, dear Loki.”

Reclaiming her hand, Frigga places a wooden box in her son’s lap. It is carefully decorated with various coloured stones, creating the liking of a fruit tree. Even the gold filigree clasp carries the same theme of leaves and apple blossoms.

The queen cups his cheek to make sure Loki listens carefully. “Whatever she chooses…respect it.”


	19. XIX - Belonging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm...some adult action at the end so maybe procede with cautions ;)

Idunn releases you from her charge on the second day with unnegotiable instructions to keep your arm in a sling to let the tissue regain some of its strength in the hopes that it may not dislocate again anytime soon. You accept without a question. Although the Asgardian infirmary is a lovely, peaceful place it cannot sate your curiosity…also a new, strict “no visitors”-rule has been implemented. Nothing (or no one) there can soothe you. And so you trail behind a guard who has been tasked with showing you to your chamber during your stay here in Valhalla – a stay meant to fill in the blanks concerning the endeavour in Sjöblik while the rulers of the surrounding nations monitor the situation as it develops.

“Here you are, m’lady.” The guard bows before stalking away, back to his post.

 _Lady._ It had been strange to hear your fellow Midgardians call you that even if it had been because of the role you had taken for the quest. But now? It feels wrong. It is meant out of respect of some sort, though, and you do not have it in your heart to correct them anymore considering that it had been ignored the first many times.

Staring at the double doored entrance, an ember of worry flares in your belly at what might face you beyond. _It’s just a room._ The metal of the handle is cold on against the palm of your hand. _Probably just a room with a bed, a dresser or closet._ You have to push with your shoulder to get the obscenely large door-half moving. _Maybe a fireplace and a soft seat._ Stepping through, you let the door fall shut behind you with a soft click. There might be a bed, chair and whatnot in the room. Honestly, you do not know because in those moments the entire world suddenly only contains the person standing there.

Loki had been there when you arrived in Valhalla by means of the rainbow bridge, he had been the one to carry you safely to the Healing Ward too, but both of these memories are vague, diluted by the pain and fatigue. The last you had seen as a magically induced sleep took you, were his pale face framed in ink-black hair. Green emeralds cut with concern.

There is no hesitation as you walk over to him, wrapping your one good arm around his slender frame as you bury your face in his chest to breathe in the crisp scent of pine needles and flint. His cool skin is soothing even through fabric and leather, layers that does not hide the gallop of his heart as he returns the embrace, peppering the top of your head with kisses. _I want those._ Tipping your head, you reach for his lips only to find that he pulls away slightly and there they are: green eyes that scrutinize every detail of you as if trying to commit you to memory or read your mind. _Can he do that? Hear my thoughts?_ If he could, though, then he would be kissing you rather than look as if he is about to cry.

“Loki?” Even your frail voice makes him wince. “What is it?”

He leads you to a seat by one of the tall windows and you are sure that if the circumstances were different you would admire the view. But now all you can do is force your heart to keep beating as a clammy fear twists your insides.

“[Y/N], I need you to be honest with yourself and with me,” Loki begins tentatively, “take everything into consideration before you say anything after I finish. Do you promise?”

You nod then listen with growing exasperation as he explains how the Midgardians have risen behind the unknown hero who freed them from a tyrant, how wealth is being redistributed, the poor are being fed, and the sick healed. There are even talks of finding a new ruler whom everyone approves of – well, all commoners, seeing how the remainders of the court are apparently rather apprehensive.

“What I am trying to say is…you could return. Live a good life. Find happiness.”

Knowing him after hours of discussions in Utgard, you can see that he is not finished but you shush him regardless. “Loki. The only reason I would have to leave your side, is if _you_ want that. I have nothing to return to, no one who miss me there, no home…not even _my heart_ is in Midgard anym–“

“Please, you do not –“

A glare shuts him up once more, allowing you to continue. “I love you. If you haven’t understood this by now, then you’re not as smart as you claim.” _But he does have reason to be concerned._ “So…if I leave it would be to spare you the misery of watching me grow old before you.”

Tears sting your eyes, forcing you too look away. Head lowered and gaze trailing along the fine stitches in the borrowed dress, you wait for judgement to fall. And when he plants a tender kiss on your forehead before walking away, it shatters you soul. Fat drops fall onto the blur of ocean coloured silks. _Why did the wolves pull me from the stream?_ Wiping the saltwater away angrily, you are startled at the appearance of a beautifully decorated wooden box held in Loki’s shaking hands before you. Not sure what the meaning is, you stay quiet as he opens it to reveal a golden apple nestled carefully among crisply dried leaves.

“This is one of Idunn’s apples,” he offers in explanation, “the tree is magical, only wielding one fruit every ten years…but we do not need many.” The apple is almost obscured in his hand as he removes it from the storage. “Asgardians and Jötun live long lives…it is in our blood while other races, such as yours, have fewer years…unless they eat an apple like this.” It takes your breath away when he kneels on one knee, holding the golden fruit in both hands for you to take. “I offer it to you, [Y/N], with my heart and soul.”

Navigating through a blur of tears (now happy) streaming freely, you pick the offering from his hands, carefully placing it on the seat before launching yourself into his arms, toppling him (and sending a sharp jolt through the shoulder supposed to be kept at rest). Everything is reduced to a tangle of limbs and clothes as lips finally meet in harsh kisses that often spill onto the faces. Faces glowing with tears and smiles in equal measure as you try to sate a longing, a profound need that almost overpowers the urge to breathe. Almost. Eventually you do part, gasping as you take in each other and revel in the nearness.

“Come, my pet.” Loki places a featherlight kiss on your puffy lips. “It is near time for dinner…and I believe my family are keen to enjoy your company too.”

You want to complain, want to stay with him in this room forever. Instead you let him help you to your feet, adjust your dress and sling before taking the apple (in the box once more) in one hand and offering you the other.

…

Dinner turns into a feast where praises are drunk for you, Röskva and the other Vanir though they are absent, and to you and Loki as a couple. Delicious dishes are brought in together with any drink you could possibly desire, and still you only manage to get a little down.

“Are you not enjoying yourself.” Frigga’s soft hand squeezes yours gently.

 _Yes and no._ “I am, your highness…it’s just…a lot has happened.” Your gaze flickers across the room in search of Loki whom Thor pulled away a few minutes ago. It feels like hours. “I’m not sure I deserve the honour I’m shown.”

“I know, my dear.” The voice of a mother makes you wish for your own, but not coup can bring your own family back. “What you did took a strength that few possess if they are to nourish the same kindness as you do.” You want to object but know it would be in vain. “I do not envy you, but I will do what I can to help you through it. We all will.”

At that moment, loud cheering erupts, halting every conversation in the grand dining hall. You look around to find Loki coming towards you with the apple box in his hands, then reclaim his seat beside you.

“[Y/N], are you certain of your choice?” It is so silent that a pin dropping to the floor would be heard.

You take your time to turn your own chair towards him and rearrange your dress. “Yes, Loki. I’m sure and nothing and no one can change my mind.”

The relieved smile on his lips falter for a second as one of his friends (a blond man who has been constantly surrounded by ladies) hollers from somewhere in the crowd that “it’s an ‘ternity with Loki, might rethink that, m’lady”, but your smile and a muted smack (and “ow”) is all it takes for peace to return. With a shimmer, a knife appears in Loki’s hand, cutting through the crisp fruit with ease. Each bite he feeds you fills you with warmth, it soothes the dull ache in the shoulder, and chases the weariness away.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Everything around them falls away with each slice of apple that brings life back to her eyes and a glow to her skin. Soft lips accept his offerings, making Loki wish for the moment they truly are alone and he can be the one to lick the stray juice away. _Why wait?_ After [Y/N] swallows the last bit, he leans in and does exactly what his desires tell him to. Fresh and sweet is her mouth as he explores it as if for the first time. Perhaps there is cheering, it does not matter. Least of all as he stops to looks at her sitting there with eyes closed and heart beating quickly.

A coy smile curves a corner of her mouth by the time she return to the present. “I could get used to eating apples every day if it’s always like this,” she whispers for him alone to hear.

The testing roll of the shoulder has the Jotun king imagining how she would shrug the dress off, letting it slide off the perfect form, but he has to settle for only the sling being removed. Amazement radiates off the former mortal, enabling him to ignore the strain of his trousers.

…

It is a couple hours later before he finally can lead [Y/N] to their chambers. Tomorrow they will return to Utgard, but tonight…the rest of the night is for the two of them. Locking the doors quietly, he magically reduces the illumination to a dozen candles scattered about the room – a feat that once would have made the woman gawk, but now earns him a crooked smile.

Nimble fingers loosen sashes and ribbons until the oceanic dress hangs from the delicate shoulders. A slight shrug sends it cascading along her gorgeous body exactly as Loki had imagined, pooling on the floor and sending his heartbeat up a few notches at the view. Only a thin shift of sheer silk is left as a final barrier. Dark and perked nipples are visible through the material just like the dip of every curve and the hollowing between her thighs are. And she has the audacity to act shy.

Loki is at her in a few strides. Cool hands slide over soft, warm skin, pushing and pulling at the shift until he has succeeded in removing that too. In a glimmer of gold and green, his own clothes disappear. Finally, he can feel her body against his, enjoy how it gives in to follow his lean frame and accommodate the thigh he presses between her legs.

“By the Norns.”

The gasp escapes him when he feels the wetness of [Y/N]’s core rubbing against the hard muscle and he has to restrain himself to make sure he stays in the human form. Hands are roaming, kisses and love bites exchanged, and with each movement he brings her closer to the bed which Loki eventually lowers her onto, trailing his lips over her abdomen and further, brushing a kiss onto the mound and then that place on the folds where he knows from experience that her bud is hidden beneath.

He takes his time, holding the gorgeous woman in place with strong hands as he teases. Long, hard strokes with a flat tongue parting her womanhood and giving access to the core, fast flicks of the tip and gentle tugging with his teeth on the bundle of nerves, making her arch and beg for release. He does not grant it. _Not yet._ Not even as he feels the smooth core clamp around his fingers while she whimpers, trying to ride herself to an orgasm. She pouts when he abandons the heaven that is her womanhood in favour of feeling every inch of her heated, sweaty body. Loki loves the sight of the goosebumps he sets off with his cool touch, is mesmerized by the sensitivity of her nipples as he pinch and suckle them. The deep scent of flowers and pine needles that he inhales as he buries the nose at the crook of her neck has him gasping for more.

And there it is: the nervous anticipation as the cockhead traces through the wet folds, gently preparing both [Y/N] and himself before he pushes in slowly, taking his breath away with the tight heat.

…   READER’s PoV   …

For a heart-stopping second, you fear what might happen as his length fills you. _Don’t let me miss out on anything._ The prayers must have been answered, because you feel every inch move within, slowly at first to allow both of you to become accustomed…soon faster as your hips rise to meet his with each thrust, forcing gasps and moans out of your mouth when it is not occupied with kissing your god. Not once does he forget to give you other forms of attention. Hands continue to roam as much as possible (he does have to support himself above you). Lips, teeth, and tongue set off a perfect mixture of pain and pleasure from every place they can reach, and you feel your core tighten harder in synchronicity with a heat that builds up until you are ready to explode.

“Please…” Your plea turns into a high moan as his thumb finds you clit. “Plea-ease, Loki-i!”

And finally, he allows you to topple over into the raging bliss. You’re vaguely aware of your body spasming, slamming against him and thus setting off his own orgasm. Everything in you is a perfect blend of burning hot and cold and it runs through every limb again and again, eventually leaving you as a shivering mess in your lover’s arms.

“I love you too, [Y/N].”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and especially the wonderful comments.  
> I've had a lot of fun writing this, but even more so as I got to read the reactions. Honestly that's the best and has echoed into other aspects of my life, so thank you <3


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